I spent last weekend at a writer’s conference. The leaders call us a “tribe.” Interesting appellation.
This morning in an editorial by Roger Cohen of the NY Times called Modern Odysseys, he writes of his impending return to London after living thirty years in New York. This leads to reflecting on his mother’s terrible homesickness that drew her into such a deep depression she almost took her own life. She was born in South Africa—in a sunny warm, dry climate, but after her marriage she moved to London—damp, dreary, cold London. She ached so much for her “home” that despite her love for her family, that ache almost overcame her love.
I am part of my own Diaspora. On both ends. I moved across the country nearly twenty years ago with my husband and four children. We left family, friends, culture and climate. Three of my four children live far enough away from home, in Boston, Nashville and Austin, to require planning and traveling for a visit. Our youngest child promises that as soon as he can he’s moving as far away from the Texas heat as his career will take him.
