Reflections on Belonging

The last time I was in the United Kingdom during February was 1987. My husband, Russell, and I had spent the previous five years living in Western Australia, an adventure we embarked on after our wedding day in 1982.

Our return for the year 1987 was because I was deeply and painfully homesick; I missed my family.

My return to the UK this February 2025 had much the same impetus; even after forty years of living in Western Australia, I am homesick for my surviving family in the UK. What I find most interesting is my yearning for a part of me that I left behind when Russell and I decided to settle permanently in Western Australia, and I wonder if that yearning is, in fact, for the sense of belonging that I took for granted back then.

Perhaps I would feel differently if Russell was still alive and we were embarking on our ‘empty nesting’ together. But the fact is I have been widowed for sixteen years; my extraordinary children are now adults, and I am a woman in her early sixties seeking fulfilment for her remaining living years.

I had meant to return last year after writing this piece to commemorate fifteen years without Russell. However, deciding to downsize my home became all-consuming, taking longer than I expected, so it is only now that I find myself on the opposite side of the globe and with the headspace to begin writing again.

My place of residence for most of this year is with my amazing elderly mum, living on the beautiful island of Jersey in the Channel Islands. I use the word ‘amazing’ intentionally in relation to my mum. She will be ninety years old in April, lives in her own home, still drives herself to the hairdresser, as well as the supermarket, and enjoys pottering in her garden. Her heart is filled with love and kindness, so it’s a privilege to be in her company.

I’m especially grateful to arrive before the Northern Hemisphere winter is finished. Many people think I’m mad, but it has been so long since I’ve been able to see a British winter transform into spring that the anticipation of it brings a flutter to my heart. As a child, I loved the cold mornings when I could pretend with my friends that we were edgy by blowing imaginary cigarette smoke from our lungs in the form of cold air, our puffs of breath hanging, languid, between us. I loved the chill on my face, although the way my nose would turn scarlet was cause for embarrassment when I once overheard an adolescent boy say to his friend, “Her nose is soooo red!”

The cold air in Jersey, a small island surrounded by sea and covered with woodland, is so pure and clear that it gives me an understanding of how it feels to want to ‘drink the air.’ My choice is to be outside as much as possible, and I have taken to going on long rambles across cliffs, woodland and beaches. I love the watery sun, the naked beauty of winter trees, the incessant birdsong and the background drone of the cry from seagulls.

Russell’s sudden death sixteen years ago ripped away my sense of home because it was associated with being with him. I didn’t mind where we lived so long as we were together. That’s how we came to live in Australia. Although I agreed to it, it was Russell’s desire to move, so there have been times when my grief has morphed into anger that he left me so far away from my family. Grief is like that. It twists and corrupts my thinking if I’m not careful.

Being back in Jersey soothes my soul and gives me a sense of home, even if it’s not. Since Russell’s death, when I’m in Australia, I experience something more complicated. Australia is now my home, but it doesn’t always feel like it. My heritage is not from there, and since Russell’s been gone, there are times when I feel like an actor attempting to perform a meaningful narrative of belonging that is convincing, both to me and to others. It can be easy to believe that home is where my children are, but now that they are rightly forging their own lives, I must put on my big girl pants and forge mine, too, hoping to regain some sense of belonging.

I was mulling over this while traipsing through a woodland recently and was reminded of some exquisite words by John O’Donahue. In Eternal Echoes, he writes:

“The tree is wise in knowing how to foster its own loss. It does not become haunted by the loss nor addicted to it. The tree shelters and minds the loss. Out of this comes the quiet dignity and poise of a tree’s presence…A life that wishes to honour its own possibility has to learn how to integrate the suffering of dark and bleak times with a dignity of presence. Letting go of the old forms of life, a tree practices hospitality towards new forms of life. It balances the perennial energies of winter and spring within its own living bark. The tree is wise to the art of belonging. The tree teaches us how to journey.”1

Like others, I have suffered many losses, but it is Russell’s death that has most agitated my sense of home and left an indelible mark. John O’Donahue’s words offer hope for a new form of life and a sense of belonging. He uses the word ‘foster’ in association with loss. There’s a difference between foster and adoption that is significant. The former suggests an embracing without deep attachment, while the latter suggests immersion and it strikes me there is an art of accepting loss without being consumed by it.

It’s difficult to imagine loss and belonging thriving together, but since loss is something all humans will encounter and belonging is what we all desire, finding the way to embody both would support flourishing. I believe this is where I find myself presently. I’ve long been an advocate for ‘both/and’ rather than ‘either/or’, so here is an opportunity for me to fully live it.

I am also beginning to recognise that my sense of belonging and my sense of place are separate and that the former is more impactful than the latter.

It is the journey inward that allows me to find my outward security, regardless of where in the world I am living. This idea brings a peace that empowers me to deeply appreciate the privilege of being able to create a life that temporarily embraces living in two countries and takes away any necessity to choose one place over the other. It is my sense of presence that matters most, accepting and allowing for all that has been while honouring the possibilities yet to come.

Have you discovered supportive ways to integrate loss and belonging that allow you to continue to flourish? I would love to hear from you.

1. https://www.johnodonohue.com/works