I’ve written four books about leaving, songs and poems, had an endless romance with starting over, packing light.

But have you ever tried returning? Have you tried going back to make things right?

Have you ever left a city small and sad, determined to never return

but then you’re out there for a few years, roaming the streets, intertwining with people. You make a few rounds, collect some hearts, some wounds, and one day you come to one of those lakes where everything is still and quiet. The clouds are reflecting on the surface and it’s like you see your own thoughts and past and habitual ways in the sky, everywhere, telling you something. This lake can be real or not, either way this is what it feels like. You run and run and run and run and suddenly there’s a still lake reflecting clouds on the surface. You sit down, because lakes like these tell you to do so, and you sit there for a while, tilting your head, seeing your own ways from different angles.

Maybe that tragedy wasn’t so tragic after all? Maybe that boy just tried to go on well? Maybe this loneliness isn’t so terrible to live with as long as you know that you can meet new people any second of any day your whole life through. You can still reach out; you’re not an island.

You find yourself letting go of all the stories you’ve held on to, things that happened in these cities, people they belonged to, and now you go back...

I’ve spent the first part of my life leaving places and people and versions of myself, but lately I’ve started returning. I go back to all the places I once left. I left them angry and sad, broken and small. Usually disappointed in people and situations. I have one person for each city I’ve ever lived in, and I kept thinking I could never go back because that city belonged to us, how we were then, and I thought I had to leave and never return in order to move on and get over.

But that’s not wisdom. That’s not growth. That’s limitation and giving a piece of the world to someone you think acted wrong.

So maybe that’s what true moving on looks like: learning that nothing is ever attached to something physical. No emotion or heartbreak or catastrophic escape is ever attached to a city or a person or a house: it’s all in you. And you can change. You can move on. You can twist and turn around, take a new shape and let go. 💭🥀 An excerpt from my book “He loved me some days. I’m sure he did.” You can find the book on Amazon or at www.CharlotteEriksson.com/new-album