Home Is Where We Find Our Way

Staring out the window, looking at the orange leafed trees of our neighbour's yard, I cannot help but feel nostalgic. It has not even been three days since I got back from the balut eating country of where I lived for most part of my existence, and here I am missing all the things and people I wanted to escape from, even though not so long ago we decided to pack our bags and head out to a country that has less of the people and intrigue, and more of nature and freedom.

Flying into Christchurch, I was seated with a Malaysian who emigrated to Australia and was on his way to the South Island for the first time. We talked about politics and how each of our native countries are faring in today's world. I can't help but notice how he was so passionate with telling me about Malaysia; a stark contrast to my drab account of the Philippines. Here he was, transplanted to Australia for more than ten years now, and yet he still knows a lot about his native country. Seated beside him was a neophyte emigrant who was only detached from his native country for just a little more than a year, and yet he doesn't have a single clue as to the current state of the Philippines.

I have been critical of Filipinos who were born and grew up with the most part of their childhood in the Philippines, but was transplanted to the U.S. in particular, and has begun denying their roots by pretending that they don't remember the language and the culture any more. I would imitate their accent and make fun of them. Little did I know that I will be turning into one eventually.

Leaving is all about finding your way home. When we go away, it is always to find our way home, no matter where that would lead us. We get to choose our way. Some will opt for the more scenic route that adds spice to our lives, the fastest one, or even one that avoid toll ways. But no matter what, home is where we find our way.