The whole point of migrating, which by far outweighs the hardship, is the wonderful freedom it brings. The privilege of not being expected to conform. The advantage of belonging to all cultures and none. Choosing the best from each one you sample but at heart remaining your true unaffected self.

We all love people who represent an image: who take to life as if it were a stage. Acting out impressions we can easily interpret, taking their bow from the rest of us.

Some of them become cult figures: James Dean, Kennedy, Elvis, Grace, Diana ? the list is long. But there are also modest examples of people pursuing symbolic lives in relative obscurity.

I’m sure you can think of a few examples of people who have successfully invented themselves: the perfect housewife ensconced in her colour-matched home; the businessman in a tailored suit taking his seat in the board-room. The bearded bohemian, the stern intellectual, the sweet-smiling bimbo, and so on. All helping us decipher the mystery of human nature by labelling themselves unequivocally.

In my younger days I worshipped such people, mistaking for self-realisation masks cultivated by their owners to the point where they lost touch with their own reality.

Perhaps that was the reason why they all died young 

I didn’t see the connection. Mourning my lost idols, I did my best to follow in their footsteps. Until the day when a wise person told me:

“Dear girl, don’t be tempted to live by an image. It’s a much too dangerous game. To survive in this world you need substance. And an image is no more substantial than a dream.”

When did you last hear someone sighing: “Those were the days.” Was it a middle-aged woman in clothes too young for her, humming her favourite golden oldie, or a weathered man who still wears his hair long and speaks in the idiom of twenty years ago  Or ? was it your own voice you heard 

You may well be one of many who are caught in a time warp maintaining an old-fashioned style; as if, at some stage, your inner watch had stopped, and everything since passed you by.

We all have traces of it, this urge to halt the passage of time; whether it is a wish for eternal youth, a nostalgic hankering for things gone by, or a vain attempt to defer the final curtain.

But then there are those who cling to an outgrown persona, because it is the only one they trust. They seem to be afraid to mature and develop; accept that each given moment offers and adds something new.

What deep insecurity lies behind such fear  Was there in their past but one occasion, when they came vibrantly alive  When they felt, finally, that they were loved and valued: someone with a right to be 

Whatever the reason, there is no escaping the fact that life is all about change and growth. You are now a somewhat different person from when you started reading this text.

‘No one can bathe in the same river twice. Because everything flows.’

At six years of age, stunned by grief, I left my first home, not expecting to return.

In those days it was considered healthy to turn your back on pain. Never look back, but build a bright new future with whatever was at hand.

I grew up with a void in my heart: an ever-present sadness that I did not understand. I thought it had always been there. Part of my constitution. Until I went back.

The land between the lakes looked the same: on one side, Little Lee, frosty surface glittering in sunlight within a frame of golden reeds, streaked by long blue shadows from snow-laden trees. This was our playground in winter and summer. A haven of childhood serenity.

To the north, guarded by dark forests, shrouded by purple cloud rising as the ice settled, the vast deep waters of Large Lee stretched into the unknown. Menacing, but at the same time powerful, majestic. The steep shores ? forbidden ground ? were dangerously attractive.

Spanning these two was the space where my character formed, my picture of the world developed. It was my cradle ? the cradle we never outgrow, although we often deny it.

Tears filled my eyes, as the wound inside me slowly began to heal. For the first time in forty years I knew the feeling of being whole.