Wonder. I know that it disappears with childhood, but it slips away without acknowledgement unlike the awareness we have of growing out of the nail-biting habit or the need to assert ourselves or our innocence. Cynicism lays a protective layer across our emotions. 

In many ways we thrust wonder away in our determination to grow up and get on to the next stage, without realising that some magic disappears in the process. These stages that we move on from are actually not the stepping stones to a purpose but rather pieces of the mosaic that make up our life.

So I feel fortunate to have rediscovered this world of wonder. It’s light and airy and surprising, and I wish I could sprinkle fairy dust on everyone so they could catch a glimpse of the joy I feel when I see the full moon through autumnal leaves or the contentment that runs through me after a French chat with an elderly man in a wheelchair to whom I’ve just delivered a delicious meal from Santropol Roulant. 

My engagement and awareness comes from stripping away the tangled layers of domestic routine. I did this fairly brutally, by literally packing up my home and going to a distant city where I knew almost no one, and I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone. But I don’t mind being solitary. It allows space for ideas and exploration, surprises and unplanned encounters.

What I didn’t expect was to feel that same sense of wonder when I returned to London last week for a whirlwind visit. My short-term tenants had moved out with longer term ones arriving four days later, and my home needed to be stripped back from an Airbnb set-up to a more basically-furnished rental. So I had to pack up all my books, linens, small electric appliances, plants, decorative items and irreplaceable items like my resin-encased shell found on a beach in Indonesia or the square plate I bought in Brittany.

I delivered Fiona's aloe, raised from a tiny plant 

and now the mother of a few litters, to a friend 

Even with the lashing rain, the severely-delayed tube lines and the wind, I felt happiness when I came through the underpass to my road of terraced houses, the willow tree hanging over the river by the little green, the impromptu breakfast with my neighbour while I waited for the inventory clerks to arrive chez moi. There was a sense of belonging that had eluded me before, as if I had to go away to really see the place again. I loved having a chat with someone almost every time I went out my front door, being invited to a casual supper, gathering friends for dinner at the little Italian deli/restaurant just 100 metres from my house, and to realise that shared histories, no matter how recent, are the threads with which we weave the tapestry of our lives. 

I don’t have that community in Montreal of course, as I’ve only had two months in the city. And I’m quite aware that my sudden reappearance in London was a novelty for my friends, and that in fact, it can be hard to gather people there. Everyone is busy, or lives at a distance, and it used to frustrate me to no end that in spite of spending lovely times with friends, two months or more could go by before we could “get another date in the diary”.  

I enjoyed so much laughter over my few days in England. Some of it at the expense of the government, but also the silliness of so many things being delayed or cancelled because of “leaves on the line”. Is there any other country that grinds to a halt because of snow, heat and wind? I laughed with the man at the Hammersmith town hall when I went in to pick up recycling bags and ended up getting my fourth jab. I left with three rolls of bags and a sticker. 

I even laughed when, having loaded up my rental van and driven out through the chaos of the lane-reduced A4, I arrived at my storage facility by Heathrow airport to discover that whilst I’d remembered the access code I’d forgotten my keys to the unit. I laughed less hard when I discovered that the A4 going eastwards was also delayed and the whole mistake cost me an extra two hours on the road, but then I grabbed an umbrella and ran through the rain to Hammersmith bridge so that a friend could pick me up on the other side and take me to theirs for supper. It was all unexpected and joyful. 

I returned to a 22-degree Montreal. Which in itself is extraordinary. My heart is full.

My life, all packed up.