My recent decision to move to Fredericton was not so much a ‘decision’ as a gradual dawning that it was where I needed to be.
     It’s not the first I’ve called Fredericton home. In fact, I’m embarrassed to admit that within the past 15 years I’d moved to Fredericton twice but both times, within a few months, fled back to the perceived safety of Halifax, my “second home.”  But this time, I was convinced, it would be different. 
     What prompted my decision when it obviously hadn’t worked out in the past?  In part, family played a role. Fredericton is my hometown and where my parents and one sister still live. Another sister and her family live just down the road in Saint John. Although I had left, the desire to live closer to them had not. But, more importantly, I’ve changed and have finally let go of the old wounds that had caused me to flee in the past.
My decision to come home took root while I was visiting the Boyce Farmer’s Market one Saturday in late August. I finished a delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs and ham, then wandered toward the narrow alcove that ran parallel to a row of vendors selling free-range chicken, new potatoes, New Brunswick wine, and decadent chocolate cheesecake.
     ‘The perfect meal,’ I decided.
     But I didn’t stop. Instead I filled a foam cup with steaming coffee and poured in my usual dribble of cream. I dropped a two-dollar coin into the dish on the narrow counter to pay for my brew, then left by the side door.
I strolled passed the outdoor stands of ripe raspberries, strawberry jam, and mustard pickles. I was looking for the “Blueberry Pie Lady” to buy my father his favorite summer treat. I spotted her table and headed in that direction. On the way, I was drawn to a vibrant display of watercolor paintings.
     “My father would love these.” I said, thumbing through a stack of Fredericton scenes. 
     I pulled one out. 
     “I went to school here.” I pointed to the building displayed in the foreground. “Before it became the Justice building”
     “Are you from here?” The artist – Carole, I learned – smiled at me.
     “I live in Halifax. I grew up here.”
     “Me too!” she responded enthusiastically. “I came back three years ago. It’s been great - I’ve never looked back!”
     We talked for more than an hour, comparing schools and neighbourhoods and acquaintances from long ago.
    “You know,” she said, when I was leaving, “there’s so much to do here. You should come back.”
     “I just left. “ I confessed. “I moved back to Halifax a few months ago.”
     “You’re kidding! What made you leave?”
     “It’s a long story.”
     I considered her question on the drive back to Halifax. The fact was, I’d always associated a painful past with living in Fredericton. A failed marriage, the struggles of single parenthood, a long bout of unemployment and its resulting poverty left me feeling helpless and frustrated, and I longed to escape the confines of a small city. After two years of seemingly relentless hardships and challenges, I was offered a job in Halifax and finally changed my life for the better. During the 15 years I lived in Halifax, I decided twice that I was ready to return home but, both times, the old anxious feelings returned with me.
Back in Halifax again, I began to unravel the pain that I still carried from that long-ago time. As I revisited and sorted through the old memories, I began to see that Fredericton was the place of my suffering, but not its cause. I realized that association existed only within me. It was liberating – I decided that if I carried it, I could release it. And I did. Slowly, gradually, I reframed each occurrence and began to understand – even appreciate – the lessons it held that helped me to become a stronger, more resilient woman.   
     While visiting Fredericton for Thanksgiving, I decided to go for a walk along the Green. The afternoon was sunny and unseasonably warm. As I walked along the path, I was suddenly struck by the beauty of the Saint John River and the low-hanging willow trees that hugged the riverbank. It was as though I was seeing them for the first time. 
     On Sunday morning, I rose while my parents were still sleeping and left the house before 7 a.m. I parked my car on Queen Street across from Christ Church Cathedral. This time, I crossed the street and started down St. John Street. I was on a mission. I wanted to see if I felt the same way as I had the day before, or if – as in the past – the old feelings of anxiety and restlessness would take over. It was still too early for people to gather for Sunday service. I walked for blocks, breathing in the silence and the sound of my footsteps. It was a welcome relief from the noise and traffic I had become used to. Again, I felt the same awareness and deep appreciation of the beauty surrounding me. I turned the corner and sauntered along Charlotte Street, then cut through the short path that took me onto the walking bridge. The “train bridge”, as I knew it, had been converted to a plank-floored walking bridge that connects Fredericton South and Fredericton North. Midway, I stopped at the lookout and stared down the river. A late-season boater was speeding toward me. He raised his hand and waved before disappearing under the bridge. I smiled and waved back. I heard him roar up the river on the other side and watched him disappear into the distance before turning around and heading back to my car. I learned what I had come to find out. I was ready to come home.
     As I write this, the snow swirls outside my window and spring is but a faint glimmer of hope. But I’m content here in a way that I never thought I would be. I now see that ‘place’ – this one or any other – is a melting pot of people and experiences and what we make of them. I’ve learned that the beauty of a place exists within one’s own heart. And, in my heart, I’m happy to be home.