It's not easy getting pulled in all directions

Where to from here -

Over the years I have noticed an obvious pattern in my habitation. I seem to always live in regions of the world that are considered isolated in one way or another, though often isolated by the granddaddy of separation - water.

This instinct can be traced to my upbringing in Newfoundland, more specifically my childhood on the Great Northern Peninsula. Waves and wind lulled me to sleep; the Strait of Belle Isle was a much-loved and respected playmate, continually lending itself to rocky treasure hunts and spirited games of skipping tides. The latter often resulting in a group of soaking wet children slogging home to mom for a change of clothes and a tongue lashing, or, in my case, following my cousin home to drink Tang and wait for my clothes from the dryer in order to avoid the dreaded, "That's it! You're in for the night now."

As teenagers, the landwash remained a fixture in our lives. I always tell my friends from away that we made our own fun out around the bay. We had to and that included fires around the point, down on the landwash. It still does. Staring at young fellers across the flames, hoping the flankers didn't burn any holes in your new jacket, taking sips from a Labatt Lite you secretly thought tasted gross but drank to look 'cool'.

Even now, when I use the word beach I am referring to the slippery kelp covered kind more often than the golden sand capped sort. After high school I moved to St. John's, home to the oldest fishing harbour in North America, then on to South Korea, a country whose only border forces it to function as an artificial island, and eventually Montreal, lying at the confluence of the St. Lawrence and Ottawa rivers. I am a bonafide island hopper! And it's not like I sat with an atlas on my lap scratching out isolated areas that fit my narrow parameters of acceptance. It just happened, I just seemed to be drawn to places accessing the sea. A glorified sodium worshiper is what I am. This very moment, I write this column from Whale Island in St. John Bay where I lobster fish with my father every spring. I'm sitting in a fishing cabin on an island off an island. Maybe I'm obsessed.

Or maybe there is far more to it than that. Maybe the water shapes us as it shapes the rock we live on, rubbing away apprehension and frustration, leaving fondness and security over time. Like some ancient group of wanderers. Newfoundlanders understand the Atlantic's power of protection, her temperament and will, they understand the maternal nature of her cutting remarks as well as they understand the act of breathing. It's only natural then to seek out places where that same level of comfort can be found.

We all agree that where we live is the greatest determining factor of happiness. Richard Florida, author of the international bestseller Who's Your City? believes that "place is not only important" but that "it's more important than ever." So how do we choose your city, town, community or province even?

This has been weighing heavily on my mind since graduating from the National Theatre School of Canada in May. Everyone is preoccupied, myself included, with my impending decision. My friends and family start conversations with "So, are you home for good?" while friends on the mainland rephrase it slightly differently, "You're not going home for good?"

Newfoundland, like some great vortex, provokes such contrasting opinions, wields such undeniable strength, a tractor beam of sorts, sucking us all back in. It's been said that Newfoundlanders living elsewhere don't go on vacation, they go home - a fact the airlines well know and take full advantage of. We'll pay anything, won't we? To stomp across a bog, complain about the weather, comment on how close the Labrador looks on a clear evening.

Is it the fate of my generation to be in constant flux? Living in one place in order to pursue a career while their hearts remain at home. This past winter I began referring to the new tourism Newfoundland campaign airing on television as "my commercials." I can recognize the opening melody from any room in our apartment, no matter what I'm doing. Washing dishes, sorting laundry, reading, writing, arithmetic (okay, not so much), it makes no difference what I'm doing.

All is abandoned when I hear the the opening bars echoing from the living room, out I run chirping that "my commercial" is on. I am spellbound when Jenny Gear opens her door in downtown St. John's or when those almost too cute red-headed kids run through L'Anse aux Meadows. I am paralyzed by the beauty of my home staring at the screen as if seeing it for the first time, every time. The boyfriend thinks I'm cracked.

And it's not just the commercials, Hockey Night in Canada's intro from pre-Confederation spreads an embarrassing grin across my face. "Good night Canada, hockey fans in the United States and Newfoundland." It confirms my belief that we're an individual unit, separated by more than geography and history. We identify ourselves as Newfoundlanders first. Don't confuse my provincial pride for pro-separatism, we'll leave that mess to the Quebeckers.

I'm also a proud Canadian who sees great value in the larger unified country but I didn't yearn for the Rockies when I was in Asia, I yearned for the rock. I couldn't wait to drop and add s's at will, to speak as fast as I was thinking.

So, with all that I know, now I wonder, where to from here?

(Megan Coles is a writer who is originally from Savage Cove. She can be reached at megcoles@gmail.com)