The Sweet Pain of Leaving

Ever since I was a child in the 1950's, standing on the wharf of Melbourne pier to board the immense ship that was to take us to Europe, I have never recovered from the excitement of embarkation.

Of leaving and then arriving, and that wonderful spread of empty space in between.

And as I followed my parents up the gangway, with the tart smell of the sea and bilgewater in my nose, amid the excited babble of hundreds of people saying goodbye - the suitcases being passed from hand to hand - the tears and frantic hugs and kisses, the drama of it all - the terrible finality of leaving and how it brought out so much love, it seemed even then in my child's mind, that this was the cutting edge of life, when people leave, or are lost, or die.

That's when love is most visible, and all the good parts of people appear, that are usually forgotten when life is a comfortable continuum.

And I'll never forget the almost painful sense of exhilaration in my chest as we stood at the rail as the ship left the pier, and my father handed me a roll of paper streamer, then showed me how to throw it while holding on to one end. I watched it arc out over the water, and my father lifted me up and I saw the roll of my streamer land on the pier. A stranger made tiny by distance picked it up, a man, his eyes searching along the fragile white strip to where I looked down from my father's arms. They waved, and as the ship vibrated and drew away, the two of us watched one another drift apart until the streamer stretched and broke along with all the others - to flutter down into the water as the pier slipped back behind the ship.

Then the shuffling of feet as people ran back to the stern to catch one last glimpse of their loved ones - the frantic waving of arms at people no longer recognizable in the tiny crowd cramped at the end of the now-distant pier.

As I looked around me adults were sobbing and holding one another - something I'd never seen them do before, usually so reserved - and I cried because they cried, and though the pain around me was palpable, for the first time in my life, I felt connected with people, instead of apart, because I could feel their hearts beating all around me, and hear their honesty in their cries.

And so it is, that in the 58 years of my life, I'm still leaving and arriving. The suitcases and packs have never been discarded, and I've never bought anything that could not be disposed of, because the exquisite pain of leaving has always beckoned - the crisp clarity of the departure gate as it closes behind me - neatly snipping away the life I have been leading.

Then the long passage into the plane - then the thrust of takeoff, then the empty space of in-between. Then the exhilarating arrival, the vivid bustle of the new.

Though I always yearn for a home, I am hopelessly addicted to these things.