Here’s a spooooooky thought for Hallowe’en: I’ve kind of become homeless over the last few years, haven’t I?

I have a warm place to sleep every night and all that, but do I really have a home anymore?

Take a typical year. 52 weeks.

Of those 52 weeks, I tend to spend about 6 weeks in Wales.

I spend about 18 weeks per year in Woodbridge – mostly during the summer, but with some shorter stays interspersed throughout the year.

That leaves about 28 weeks per year in Kingston. A majority, but not an overwhelming majority – just 54% of the year.

It’s pretty clear that Wales isn’t my home. And over the past few years I’ve stopped regarding Woodbridge as my home – given that I haven’t spent the majority of my time there since 2009, I suppose that was bound to happen eventually.

That leaves Kingston. The thing is, even though I’ve spent the majority of the last three years in that city, I still kind of feel like I’m just visiting. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because in a sense, I am – I’ll be leaving Kingston without much reason to return at the end of this school year.

Ironically, the place where I feel most at “home” is downtown Toronto, but I’ve lived there for a total of zero days over the past few years. That can’t be home.

I don’t think being without a home is necessarily a bad thing. I think it’s a temporary and natural part of growing up. A lot of people are at the point where they’ve outgrown their parents’ home but haven’t moved into one of their own yet, after all.