How did I get here? Adventures in Change, in Loss, in Renewal, 2022 to 2023

The last time I wrote I was stuck in bed, quarantined with what would become known as "flurona" (COVID plus the flu).  Of course, I took it one step further and somehow contracted both influenza A and B, cuz I'm an overachiever like that.  This time I was hospitalized for acute cholecystitis and acute cholangitis, fancy terms for an inflamed infected gallbladder and duct, not to mention a bunch of gallstones.  At least the British hospital was fairly posh, prioritizing a full tea service every afternoon. The fact that I'm just sitting down to write another entry now, two years after my last illness-induced entry, may be a sign that life is just a bit too busy.  I suppose I should do a better job of slowing down and taking the time to write.  One friend told me my body has figured out that the only way to get me to stop and rest is to rip the rug out from under me so I'll stop for a bit.  She may be right.  The past two years have been a lot.  It was probably time to rest.

The past two years are more than can reasonably be captured in a blog post (and honestly, if I weren't writing this for myself and my kids, I wouldn't bother even trying to fill in the missing time), but since I've started writing I may as well do my best to capture a few of the highest highs, the lowest lows, and the specialest moments in between.

My parents were visiting us all the way over in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania back in 2022 when I was laid up last time. It turns out Mom is the world's greatest nurse and even though she and my dad both ended up getting sick as well, she nursed us all back to health in time to head out on a fantastic safari in the Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater (except for poor Philosopher who spent most of the Serengeti sick), a trip to Zanzibar with Young Man and Philosopher, and swimming with whale sharks and scuba diving on Mafia Island.  It was a fantastic visit (in spite of the sick days).  

The rest of our time in Tanzania was a whirlwind. I spent several weeks on a TDY to Juba, South Sudan, as well as trips to Zanzibar and Mwanza for work (which I loved).  We sailed and scuba dived and spent most evenings and weekends with friends.  We spent a wonderful anniversary trip in Pemba, scuba diving and later went back to Pemba and to Fish Eagle Point for dive trips with friends.  It was a busy time.  We played hard and worked hard as we prepared to say goodbye to Tanzania.  Despite attempts to keep him happy, the Paraglider grieved the loss of his sailboat, perhaps envisioning it as a metaphor for lost youth, lost freedom, and began wandering.  He said it meant nothing, that he was happy and wanted to stay together.  I chose to believe him.  Probably the frenetic pace of playing, the constant searching for the next adventure was an impossible attempt to sate an unquenchable thirst.  I should have seen the signs.  I should have known what was coming.  Somehow, I did not.

I left a couple weeks early to finalize the purchase of a new home in Albuquerque (yay!) and help Charming Child settle in after boarding school finished for the year.  The Paraglider stayed back to finish packing out the house and to take the boys on a few more adventures.  It only took a day for him fall in love and another few days to decide his future lay in a different direction from ours.  It only took a moment for his voice across the phone to completely shatter me.

Did I mention already that the anniversary we celebrated in a romantic oceanview room overlooking the Indian Ocean only a few months earlier was our 21st?  Or that the days before he met her he had been calling me multiple times a day to tell me how much he missed me, how he couldn't wait to be together again, how he was so grateful he had made the best decision of his life when he asked me to marry him?  Did I mention that as much as I wanted to believe the avalanche of love and promises and apologies across the distance, they had begun to ring hollow?  Did I mention the way my world shifted, stopped, fell apart when I realized I was being abandoned for a child, left with no job, no prospects, no plan, and only a suitcase worth of belongings?  Did I mention the way my ability to trust shattered into a thousand irretrievable pieces?  Did I mention the strange shock and how I kept living but didn't really keep living for the next few weeks while we were together but really his heart and mind were with her?  Did I mention the way that Charming Child wrapped me in their arms and told me they were proud of me, that he never deserved me and that it might not be easy to see now, but that I would be better off without him?  Did I mention they were right?

The next several months are a blur.  I applied to hundreds of jobs, did my best to distract the Philosopher from the upheaval, to create a normal, happy home, tried to understand and forgive my intentional blindness, my unending patience (cowardice?), my naiveté, everything that had thrown me into such a vulnerable and precarious position. I cried, a lot. I lost my appetite for food and for life. I walked. I practiced yoga. I read and read. I refreshed old friendships. I worked on myself, poking at all the ugly truths I had hidden away.  I got a tattoo.  I planned a roadtrip to take the Philosopher to visit universities, to do some job interviews, to visit family, to fill the limbo of life unemployed and unsettled (and to get far away from the Paraglider while he took his new love to all of our favorite places, poisoning our memories, sleeping with her in our bed). I spent so much (but never enough) time with family, hiking through the Sandia and Santa Fe mountains as often as I could get away.  There were so many beautiful moments to temper the nightmare.  As lost as I was, I was already becoming myself. 

And then the job offers started coming in at last.  We chose a place with lots of snow, for the Philosopher.  And once again we were packing everything we owned into our suitcases, jumping into the car for a new start, a new beginning.  At last, I thought, we can make a home, we can settle, we can breathe.  We planned to stay, if not forever, then at least a few years, probably until the Philosopher graduated from high school.  We drove up to this place we'd never been, opened the door to an adorable little apartment, lugged our suitcases up the stairs, and relaxed.  We were home.

The Philosopher joined the snow boarding team and tech crew for the theater.  He made friends.  I worked hard to master a job that was different from anything I'd ever done.  We celebrated the new year in Chicago.  We hiked the Ice Age trail.  I went snowshoeing nearly every weekend while the Philosopher was on the mountain.  And then, just a little more than a month after arriving, I got an email I was never supposed to receive.  

Before I knew my life was going to change, I had applied for the Foreign Service (again).  It was a little game I played.  I liked keeping the option in my back pocket so that when officers looked down on me I could say I was in my role by choice, not because I couldn't pass the test.  I knew I'd never actually join the Foreign Service since our family and sticking together was our priority.  I guess I knew (or feared) more than I admitted to myself that year, however, because when the Paraglider started panicking, trying to fill an unfillable vacuum of need within himself, I'd scheduled the final test I needed to pass to become a diplomat.  I took it and passed.  Even then, however, it would take several months, a year or more maybe to actually get an offer to join the Foreign Service.  The Philosopher and I decided it would be too disruptive to move again.  I decided to put that career possibility on hold (again).  I asked them not to consider me for openings.  

And still, I got the email.  The email that I almost deleted without considering.  The email that I jokingly mentioned to the Philosopher, with the assurance that I was going to say no.  The email that we couldn't quite put out of our minds.  As we sat eating dinner, he said, I think you should do it.  I said, No way. We just got here. You JUST started school.  He took another bite, nodded then said, I think I miss it though.  I said, Are you sure?  I thought, this is crazy, crazy, crazy, I never want to move again. And also, I thought, Oh please say yes, this is what I want more than anything.  We made a list of pros and cons. The list heavily favored staying put.  The Philosopher frowned, said, I don't think that's everything.  He added, subtracted, and edited until the list evolved, favoring another change. He looked up and smiled.  We hugged each other.  It's going to be really hard to move again, I said.  I know, he said.  But we can't not do this. I hugged him tighter.  Have I mentioned that this kid is one of my very favorite people?  And yet, deep inside my gut I worried, just a little.  I'd be giving him a lot, no doubt, but did he really understand what he'd be giving up by moving again, by giving up the opportunity to put down roots?  Did I understand what I'd be giving up?  Would it be worth it?  We laughed, a little nervously, and started planning our next move.

And then we were in Virginia.  The Philosopher started another school (his fourth in one year).  He jumped right into theater, made friends (and missed his old friends, old school more than he expected).  Charming Child joined us along with Prince.  My parents and sisters came out to celebrate my graduation, my swearing in as a U.S. diplomat.  And to celebrate Charming Child's graduation from High School (as in most things, done on their time table, in their own way).  We caught up with old friends, made new ones, hiked the Shenandoah National Forest, Great Falls area, and unending trail system. We explored the city's museums, festivals, and farmer's markets.  The Philosopher flew back to visit old friends, then met up  with Young Man to fly across the world to visit their dad.

And then we were packing again.  Saying goodbye (again), exploring a new country, a new city. Making a new home.  Finally, we've caught our breath, relaxed into this new place.  I love my job.  The Philosopher has new friends. Charming Child has found new love.  We've all grown together, and as individuals.  There have been some really hard things (there always are) and even more really beautiful moments.

There are so many things I could say about the past two years, about how hard and confusing and distressing they were, and also how many amazing opportunities and experiences we've had.  Sometimes we just sit, the Philosopher and me, and look at pictures, talk about how things were, how they've changed, the things we are grateful for and the things we've had to overcome. There were times over the past two years when I was angry.  Angry at myself for not setting better boundaries, for not leaving sooner, for pouring so much of myself into a black hole that I almost lost myself.  Angry at him for his betrayal, his selfishness, his lies.  Angry at society, at my upbringing, at my bad luck.  But mostly, I am happy.  I have grown a lot, learned a lot, and become more confident.  I trust myself.  I like myself.  I have taken this space to stretch.  I have some regrets, but mostly, I am grateful to be who I am, where I am, with the family and friends that I have.  And there is so much of life ahead.  So many adventures yet unlived.  

I am ready.

Losing some shoes, but still moving forward...

Over the past couple years, this family has lost some shoes.

One pair walked off to university.  They come back for holidays, hugs, and games, but never often enough or long enough.  Still, I love following their footsteps through new adventures.  I'm so curious where they will eventually land (and constantly scheming how to bring them back as often as possible).  Whenever I see their shoes in the entryway, it makes me smile.

Another pair decided they weren't a good fit for this family and walked off to check out other shoes, other feet.  It was hard but I've stopped looking for those shoes in the closet, have even started to enjoy the extra space.

Another pair comes and goes. They are here now, trying to find their trail through this life.  I'm so happy they found their way back to me and also hope they find their path away when the time is right.  In the meantime, they've brought another pair of shoes to join us for now.  They're nice shoes; I hope they stay for quite awhile.

And that leaves four shoes.  Two of those are gaining independence, venturing away from home sometimes to visit the shoes that left, other times to explore or travel with friends.  They always come back home, but each time they leave, I can't help but think of how soon it might just be my own two shoes in this house. 

To go from ten to two in just a few years is an enormous metamorphosis. It has been a time of grieving, growing, and breathing.  I've become a lot more comfortable in my own two shoes.  So even though our journey has changed, life is still just like a new pair of shoes, and I am busy breaking them in.

Kyiv Is an Artist's City

After awhile, life overseas with a family becomes just as busy (or maybe even more busy) than life at home in the U.S.  There are work obligations, outings with friends, service opportunities, organization events, hellos and goodbyes and networking events with colleagues.  There are birthdays and sleep overs and play dates.  There are dinners and adventures and tragedies.  There are chores and surprises and errands.  In short, life happens.  I hate the idea that this incredibly rich and beautiful and chaotic life is passing in a whirlwind without any documentation , but honestly, there's just not enough time to live it and document it (actually, we've got lots of pictures, they just exist in a digital jumble waiting to be sorted and shared!).  But tonight I find myself with a few spare moments, so I decided to let the dishes sit unwashed (it's Darling Daughter's chore now anyway) and capture a bit of the city we live in and the morning we experienced.

But first I'll back up a little.  Yesterday was a crazy mess of kids' performances at school, work events late after work, a futsal tournament for Young Man, and a scout canoe trip put together by My Man.  I finally got to sleep around midnight after all the logistics were sorted.  Young Man and a friend headed out to intercept and join the scouts early this morning and then Darling Daughter, Funny Guy, and I set out to join a Kyiv City Mural Tour my office at work had arranged.  The day was perfect--sunshiney warm with a soft cool breeze.  This is really Kyiv at its best.

Our guide met us at Golden Gate metro stop and we walked through streets we don't generally see and learned about the beautiful (and fairly recent) tradition of giant street murals in Kyiv.  Before the Maidan revolution, city bureaucracy made it difficult for artists to receive permission to paint.  Now, however, with new construction and a more empathetic government, artists are more likely to be granted an apartment or office building wall to showcase their talents and message to the world.  In just two hours of leisurely rambling, we saw a bunch of murals, varying in artistic merit, only scratching the surface of the amazing street art Kyiv has to offer.

I loved how the kids saw the graffiti as artwork in its own way, how the joy of running around and playing outside with friends was as exciting as any of it.  I loved our tour guide's passion and the stories behind each picture.  I loved spending time walking slowly and seeing the buildings, the flowers, the colors.  It was a beautiful snapshot of our wonderful, chaotic life here in Kyiv.

PS  Check out Funny Guy's awesome geography project he brought home yesterday:

PPS  I wrote this in June.  It's now November.  :D  Just took a few months to put the pictures to the words.

At Home in Paradise

As I was driving home today, ticking off my "To do" list in my head, I realized, life is back to normal!  I was driving without GPS, the crazy traffic, tuk-tuks, and motorcycles weren't giving me panic attacks, things were good. I need to remind myself, each time we move, that the great stress of upheaval and newness and change (along with the accompanying excitement and intrigue) eventually passes. I've realized that six months is my magic number. Give me six months anywhere, and it will become home. This morning I went shopping, stopping at three stores to get the best deals on oats, dairy products, and pantry staples. I came home and made granola and baked oatmeal and prepped dinner. I took one kid to a birthday party and the others to a playdate and lunch across town. I nonchalantly flicked an ant off my glass before I took a drink, barely noticing. I walked the dog around the neighborhood while our kids laughed and rode their bikes alongside.  I handwashed dishes without stopping to mourn our lack of a modern dishwasher. I took the kids to the orthodontist and planned meals for the next week. I checked email and submitted insurance claims and played a game with the kids. All in all, it was a wonderful day. An ordinary day. One of the very best kinds.

Hating Paradise

Today, I am a hater.

I hate everything. (Cue chorus of "I Hate Everything About You.")

I especially hate this city and everything about living here.

This  morning when my alarm went off, early on a Saturday morning so I could drive my husband into work (work on a Saturday?!), I hated the alarm, I hated the over-enthusiastic cheerful warblings of the birds outside, I hated the truck driver that hit my husband so that now he has a broken foot and crutches. I hated having to carefully inspect my toothbrush for ants before brushing my teeth, I hated the still-unfixed toilet after four service calls to get the flusher fixed. I hated the unfamiliar house that will never really seem like home, even though it is, for the next couple years. I hated the smoky dirty air, and how it is attacking my lungs, even in the house where we have air purifiers and filters running 24/7. Then I hear my littlest angel cough and I double-hate the air, no, triple-hate it for giving him asthma (and for the emergency room visit and hospital stay that is part of the reason that I am so bone-dead exhausted). I hate that I got pneumonia right when we got here and now that I’m better, I feel like I might be coming down with something new. I hate the language I can’t understand, no matter how hard I try. I hate the complete helplessness of illiteracy. I hate trying so hard to learn a phrase, only to have someone stare at me like I’m speaking gibberish. I hate tones. I hate the chaotic driving on the wrong side of the road, where I am constantly fearful of blinking and missing an erratic movement of a motorcycle driver or scooter or rickshaw or truck or pedestrian, all of whom seem completely oblivious to any common sense rules of the road. I hate the sense of panic I feel when I misunderstand my GPS’s instructions and miss a turn (should have taken a sharp left, not a slight left) so that a 20-minute drive turns into a 45-minute ordeal with several U-turns and tiny, crowded alleys. I hate having someone explain where something is and not having any idea what they are talking about. I hate the weird smells and feeling constantly slightly nauseated because of something I ate that my stomach isn’t used to. I hate the bugs, the mosquitos, the ants (everywhere, the ants!). I hate the litter. I hate how I never know how to answer the question “Where are you from?” I hate not having roots. I hate not having any friends (friendly acquaintances are not the same). I hate the tears that threaten to erupt and then start and just will. Not. Stop. I hate everything. And most of all, I hate myself for hating everything when I am living in paradise.

And this,  my friends, is culture shock. It’s amazing how clinical it is. You can read up on the symptoms of culture shock and know exactly what to expect and that it’s completely normal when you move to a new country, no matter how awesome that country may be. Still, it’s different living it than reading about it. I feel guilty for feeling it. I know there are a million things to love about this place. A million reasons to be grateful I am here. I try to strong-arm my emotions into happy and positive and confident. And tomorrow, probably, I will be grateful to be here and in love with this adventure. But today? Today I am drowning in the misery of culture shock. And I hate that I can’t just drive down to Safeway and buy a gallon of Chocolate Moose Tracks ice cream to drown my sorrows (add that to the list: I hate the fake ice cream here!).

(Update, three weeks later: Obviously, I don't hate living in Thailand. Culture shock makes you think crazy things sometimes, but the great thing about it is that it is temporary. For me, part of transitioning and settling into a new place is acknowledging the bad along with embracing the good. This post was extremely cathartic and I can confidently say that culture shock this go around is done, but I won't be surprised when it hits again the next time we move.)

Monday Morning in Paradise

As my alarm insistently pulls me awake in the predawn morning, I groan and think longingly of my Western hemisphere friends, still luxuriating in their Sunday evenings. I roll over gingerly, yes, still bruised where my hip bone pushes too sharply into the rock-hard Asian mattress.  The good news? I feel loads better than yesterday when I was still in the firm clutches of whatever virus conquered me so completely. The bad news? Giant cold sore on my upper lip.

As I make my way downstairs to cook breakfast, I gasp at the lightning fast tickle of a lizard scurrying out of my way, short-cutting across my bare toes. I actually welcome these critters into my home (better than bugs any day!) but still the surprise takes my breath away.  Soon I have bacon in the pan, eggs sitting out ready to scramble, and the whispering of little feet above my head telling me the kids are out of bed and getting dressed (a small miracle after only being awakened once! Must be finally nearing the end of jet lag). And then, before I know what hit me, I’m gagging. The bacon, only two days old, is wrong, so very wrong.  Still gagging, but grateful no one else is in the kitchen yet, I start over, reminding myself that meat is different here: Eat the day we buy it or freeze immediately.  My friend warned me, but I’d forgotten. I think this smell will make the message stick though. 

No worries, we still have time.  Eggs sizzling on the stove, fruit cut, I open a cupboard to finish preparing lunches for the kids. Quick dark movement, everywhere. It’s like the sealed packages are alive, fuzzy, vacillating frantically in the light. Ants. I wonder what they found? I try to be so careful—sweeping after every meal, every snack even, keeping everything sealed tight. Where is that lizard now?

Kids tumble down the stairs. Mom, where is my book? Mom, where are my glasses? No not those glasses, my other glasses? Mom, make sure you . . . As I move around the kitchen solving myriad problems, feeding the kids, finding lost treasures, I feel Zen. Look how awesome I am, greasing the squeaky cogs of routine on this Monday morning. Not even the ants can get me down today. I walk outside to the laundry room and swat the clouds of mosquitos away so I can get to the washer to start a load. They love this room. I wonder briefly if I can wrack up karma points by avoiding the impulse to go Rambo on the roving blood suckers with two cans of OFF!

Tropical birds start squawking outside as tendrils of light lick at the horizon. Back inside the kitchen, I’ve unearthed the ant problem—one of those cute Thai jello cones I bought for the kids’ lunches was a tiny bit sticky. Soap, water, elbow grease. Ants eradicated. For today. Or maybe just for this hour. Still, it is something. Kids have homework, water bottles, books, lunches packed away, shoes on, scampering away in the early dawn glow toward the school van. My Man hurries to gather his things, grab his motorcycle helmet, zoom off looking incongruous in his sharp suit and glossy black helmet on his motorcycle.

And then it is just me. There are piles of dirty dishes in the sink (no dishwasher here), chores to do, errands to run. More birds join boisterously into the morning conversation. A few more ants scurry into a new cupboard, just to see . . . A mosquito hums into a distant corner. The world is so beautiful. So strange. Is this really my life? My new normal? There is a part of me (is it wrong to admit that it’s a big part?) that just wishes this were all a dream, that I will wake up Monday morning back in Oregon or Utah or Virginia again, where things are normal and easy and American. Then the heady scent of Jasmine tickles my nose, I drink up the sight of palm trees and tropical flowers in my yard, and I take a deep breath, counting my blessings for marrying an adventurer to drag me out of my comfort zone and into paradise.

Disclaimer: I hesitate to post essays like this, worrying I seem ungrateful, negative, or spoiled. I know that we have it relatively easy. I know that we are lucky to be here. I know that it could be much worse (I have read The Poisonwood Bible afterall!). Still, I think a little salt goes a long way and acknowledging the hard things in life, even if they are relatively small or petty, helps us appreciate what we do have. And for me, this is hard. I am a quiet introvert who would be happy curling up with a book and a cup of steaming herbal tea every afternoon in the same little corner of my predictable world. For me, this wild and crazy expat life is a challenge. I wouldn't trade it for anything, but it is what it is. And this essay was only a little peak at the many uncomfortable annoyances I could have mentioned that are now part of my "normal." But I think it is enough. Maybe more than enough.