When I last posted, we were one week into our move, and now I can hardly believe it's fourteen days later! I'm still quite unnerved with no familiarity to anchor me (except my family, of course!).
I have found myself turning inward for grounding, seeking that which hasn't changed amidst everything that has. It's as if I wonder, “Am I still who I am HERE though I am without my familiar people, environment, office, and coffee shop that helped support my identity? Perhaps you have experienced your own transitions that have left you feeling similar?
1. I am a writer.
Crazy as it seems, since being transplanted 2,000 miles from my home of two decades, I have questioned my skillset. When you're is feeling loved and supported, it's easy for you to put yourself out there. However, with my support system missing, I am looking inside for those parts of me that haven't changed.
Just because I am not writing RIGHT NOW does not mean that I am not a writer.
To help remind me, I have taken time to page through my past creations while unpacking in addition to writing other things like thank you notes, journal entries and e-mails—anything to just keep writing.
2. I am creative.
For a writer, creativity is most associated with that ability to pour wonderfully, compelling words on the page. You may have seasons, however, when creativity means figuring out how to set up a new kitchen or how to put 3000 sq. feet worth of belongings into 2100 sq. feet.
Creativity is problem solving and mind stretching. It is finding a new walking route, dog park and hair dresser, and I am learning this can be practiced anywhere, any time.
Just because I am not creatively WRITING does not diminish my creativity.
3. I am intuitive.
You want to tap into your instincts? Wondering if you are intuitive? Plunk yourself into unfamiliar territory and you will find instinct is all you have to go on!
Yesterday we met some of the folks from the kids' new schools. Within two seconds, I figured out who would be helpful and who would not be. Within two days, I figured out which neighbor would give me a cup of sugar and who is a crab.
Without others' opinions and inputs, you need to turn inward for instruction, and it's comforting to know it's always there.
Have you ever felt confused or discouraged about your writing? What truths will you use to remind yourself you are a writer?
PRACTICE
For your practice, share a time when you found yourself in unfamiliar territory and how you found your way back to center. Is it setting up your office? Developing a writing ritual? Joining a club? I would love to hear from others how they have made the unfamiliar work for them.
Write for fifteen minutes. When you're finished, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, please be sure to leave a few comments for your fellow writers.
I didn’t really have anything to write about myself today, so I wrote about how I would imagine being in a new place feeling. I hope you don’t mind 🙂 Also, I would love if you guys could critique this; I was trying out a new voice/character/style, and I wasn’t sure what’s working and what’s not. Thanks!
—
I looked around in amazement at the room, at the house, at the world around me. I’d always thought I had life figured out, that I knew where I was going and what I was doing. But, now, here, away from everything I’d arranged so carefully, everything I’d built up and worked for, waited for, everyone ounce of confidence I had drained away with each new sight I saw.
I thought I knew what life was about. It had taken me so many years of my life, but I finally understood how I was supposed to live, work, and interact. I finally made sense of the grocer’s German accent and I knew that Mrs. Brown was never home between 9 and 10. I knew that when I crossed Elm Street the cars wouldn’t stop, but that no one ever drove on Brook. I finally felt like I understood something.
But here, where the walls smelled like week-old coffee and breathing was like drinking it, topped with the foam of the fog that graced the window panes in the morning, here where the laws didn’t seem to apply, where crime was overlooked because nobody cared, here life was a mystery. Here, it seemed like everything happened at random, like fate was finally winning out over free will.
It was hard to sleep the first night, the night after that, every night for the next two years. I would cringe as I soaked in the mystery of the night, as the headlights of the cars who dared drive down the street cast shadows of pedestrians on the walls and lit the room up like it was Hiroshima. Every creak was unfamiliar to me, and even the gentlest sound of the breeze as it meticulously chose which papers from the desk it would steal and which it would let pass with only a ruffle, set me on edge. The nail marks in my palm served as a living record.
During the day, I could never feel safe without knowing who was around. I didn’t know the man who delivered the mail, and I didn’t know who was coming to the door. I very nearly broke the faucet in the shower trying to use it like the one at home.
I kept telling myself over and over again that this was supposed to be home, that this was where I had to make myself comfortable, but even my own voice sounded foreign like the ones that constantly nattered under my window. Even my mother’s quilt, the one she’d knitted so long ago before I had come to know anything about this world, looked strange here, its soft pink stark against the chipped green walls.
This was home, I told myself, and as the days passed on, I learned the name of the mailman. I learned that Carla across the street always had extra sugar and that the man next door had two little kids. But I never learned when the cars would stop and when they wouldn’t. I would just have to dart across the street without having the comfort of knowing whether the next thing I would feel would be a bumper or the curb. Life was a mystery, and I finally had it figured out.
I looked around in amazement at the room, at the house, at the world around me. I’d always thought I had life figured out, that I knew where I was going and what I was doing. But, now, here, away from everything I’d arranged so carefully, everything I’d built up and worked for, waited for, everyone ounce of confidence I had drained away with each new sight I saw.
I thought I knew what life was about. It had taken me so many years of my life, but I finally understood how I was supposed to live, work, and interact. I finally made sense of the grocer’s German accent and I knew that Mrs. Brown was never home between 9 and 10. I knew that when I crossed Elm Street the cars wouldn’t stop, but that no one ever drove on Brook. I finally felt like I understood something.
But here, where the walls smelled like week-old coffee and breathing was like drinking it, topped with the foam of the fog that graced the window panes in the morning, here where the laws didn’t seem to apply, where crime was overlooked because nobody cared, here life was a mystery. Here, it seemed like everything happened at random, like fate was finally winning out over free will.
It was hard to sleep the first night, the night after that, every night for the next two years. I would cringe as I soaked in the mystery of the night, as the headlights of the cars who dared drive down the street cast shadows of pedestrians on the walls and lit the room up like it was Hiroshima. Every creak was unfamiliar to me, and even the gentlest sound of the breeze as it meticulously chose which papers from the desk it would steal and which it would let pass with only a ruffle, set me on edge. The nail marks in my palm served as a living record.
During the day, I could never feel safe without knowing who was around. I didn’t know the man who delivered the mail, and I didn’t know who was coming to the door. I very nearly broke the faucet in the shower trying to use it like the one at home.
I kept telling myself over and over again that this was supposed to be home, that this was where I had to make myself comfortable, but even my own voice sounded foreign like the ones that constantly nattered under my window. Even my mother’s quilt, the one she’d knitted so long ago before I had come to know anything about this world, looked strange here, its soft pink stark against the chipped green walls.
This was home, I told myself, and as the days passed on, I learned the name of the mailman. I learned that Carla across the street always had extra sugar and that the man next door had two little kids. But I never learned when the cars would stop and when they wouldn’t. I would just have to dart across the street without having the comfort of knowing whether the next thing I would feel would be a bumper or the curb. Life was a mystery, and I finally had it figured out.
Really great writing! Love the simile of the walls and the coffee, really creative! (I think you accidentally posted it twice though!)
Thanks! I’m glad you liked it. And, yes, I did post it twice – thank you so much for letting me know!
Well, you certainly have a very good imagination, Laura. Good writing.
I want to thank you for this post. At 70, I have moved too many times over the last decade. In 2006 I moved from New England to Kansas and Missouri. In 2010 I moved from Missouri to Louisiana. In 2014 I moved from Louisiana to Pennsylvania. There are stories packed in these moves, but my lack of ability to find anchors has prevented me from unpacking these stories to pages. Right now I will reread the Practice and then try to figure out a way my center where I am now. The only thing that comes immediately to my mind is being in a place that is richly blessed with an abundance of trees. Central Pennsylvania is well populated with trees as is New England. I am emotionally connected to trees…..
Hello – thanks for sharing your experiences with moving. WOW! You have uprooted so many times! I, too, am calmed by nature and hope to enjoy new outdoor experiences in my new home.
Thank you for this post, Marianne. I think it’s during the times that we get uprooted that we learn the most about ourselves. It can be great inspiration for writing, even though it might not seem like it at the time. It helps us cherish the things in life that are always present, no matter how much the world around us changes. For me, this is my faith and my family. They give me roots in any soil.
What a lovely, lovely thought Joy. Faith and family — I am counting on both daily!
🙂
Yes I agree Joy.
When there has been upheaval or changed in my life my writing has like therapy. However the experiences themselves, with some time to allow hindsight, offer a richness and bounty to any of my creative writing pursuits.
Warm Regards
Dawn
Faith is the only thing that can bring us through life!
So true! 🙂
I’m 17, and in my lifetime I have had 15 addresses, so if it’s moving you’re talking about, I know exactly where you’re coming from (though It’s never exactly been MY move, I’ve always been right in the middle of it!) I do know that relocating, though overwhelming, gives you a whole new experience that can spark creativity. I just started writing 2 years ago, and only SERIOUSLY writing for the past year, but I’ve found when you can’t be in the middle of writing physically, you can still be writing mentally. Mundane jobs like unwrapping dishes can give you time to think about an article or book scene, and create in your mind while doing something else with your hands. It really helps keep you focused, and keeps the instinct to create stay alive.
Also, like you said, taking time to go back through your past writings reminds you of your inner self and the passion you have to write. (I know, I’ve been there too!)
This is a great article, and I’m so glad you posted it despite all you’re going through!
Thanks!
“In all you do, do to the glory of God”
I really enjoyed reading your post because I’m about the same age as you are and I have never moved (hence the fictional aspect of my practice today). It’s interesting to know how someone my age has adjusted to this kind of life that is quite the opposite of mine.
Wow, I ‘m so glad to know there’s someone else my age on the write practice! I’ve read your posts and always thought you were an adult. You have some great writing!
Thanks, and I have to say the feeling is mutual. I always thought you were an adult, but I’m glad to find that I’m not the only one this age here.
Just a curiosity, what are you currently writing?
I just finished writing my first novel, although I haven’t gotten to edit it yet. I’ve started the sequel but I’m not really sure where to take it yet. How about you?
I’m in the middle of my first novel, a Christian romance. It’s about a young woman who is injured and her faith in God helps her overcome her struggles. What’s your plot?
Wow, that sounds like a really interesting topic. Mine is about a woman who runs away from her home and husband to move in with her sister-in-law and try to improve her life, but only winds up making it worse.
How long have you been working on your novel?
Two 1/2 years 🙂 once I started writing, I could never stop!
Haha, that’s something we can all relate to. I’ve started so many novels over the years and failed to finish them, but I’m glad at least to have finished one!
What genres are you more interested in?
I admire you for finishing your first novel! This is the first one I started, and I’m determined to finish it.
I love Christian fiction, especially romance, that’s why I’m writing one!
That’s so awesome! I hope you can finish it. I would love to read it sometime; your writing is great!
Thanks, so is yours!
Awesome plot, Reagan! I really relate to what you’ve said about writing.
Thanks, I’m glad you like it!
I totally love that we have young writers on The Write Practice!! And writers brave enough to share from their perspective. Thank you for your encouragement! I would imagine you are a pro at making a home wherever you land!
Thanks! I love the write practice and the fact that I can share with others!
You have a wonderful way of expressing yourself despite your young age. Keep writing—you’re good at it!
Thanks!
I have recently moved three times in less than one year! I have always known that I am and want to be a writer, however, my mind seemed to be playing tricks on me during this time.
I have had a character in mind for the last 2 years (yes, two years!), and I decided that I wanted to “embody” her.
With that being said, I found myself moving into the areas where she was going to be set. Once I arrived in these areas, I started questioning my decision big time.
Is this normal? Have any other famous writers taken such a “crazy” route??
These areas had no “writing places”, such as coffee shops, or even a nearby local library ;all the places that I loved to visit when I need to create on paper.
I felt like and outsider because I wasn’t who I was creating,
Everything started to become stored in my mind and my character changed about a milion times! The only thing that remained the same was her outter shell .
I hadn’t written one word about her life, however, through my transition I grew in the aspect of creativity and taking risks.
Now, a year later, I am in an area that is more conducive to my craft, however, I am no longer afraid to venture out for the sake of authentic storytelling.
Whew! Writing can be a journey!
Wow what an awesome story! That must be great to actually see firsthand what your character lives in!
That sounds like quite the journey!
Moving does tend to disorient a person. I think I’ve moved 15 times in my 77 years. The move from Los Angeles to a small rural village in Switzerland was the biggest challenge. I went from a big, sprawling city to a small rural village not speaking the language.
What kept me from feeling absolutely out of my element were some English
speaking neighbors and the beautiful surroundings. I had recently begun writing
haiku before the move. With rolling hills, green fields, snow capped mountains,
lakes, rivers , streams, orchards, and farms I was inspired to write many haiku.
Getting them published in American journals helped me to settle in and really
appreciate my surroundings.
Writing, whether it be in a journal, a diary, a story, or a novel can help to anchor one in new surroundings. Pouring out the words is often like talking to a friend, a friend who will always be there whenever you are ready to begin again.
Thanks for that beautiful sharing.
And the reminder that “Pouring out the words is often like talking to a friend…”
My ‘friend’ gets a little feisty at times. I think that’s why I like her.:-)
Warm Regards
Dawn
As a poet since childhood, I have “written” songs when I haven’t had paper or pen… so orientation “as a writer” has never been a problem for me. Perhaps I inherited this from my grandfather who was a great storyteller from his days during the Depression meeting others around campfires while they were seeking work wherever they could find it.
I actually wonder sometimes if we are merely “re-creating” rather than creative when we have become so settled in one place and lifestyle for the length of time you refer to… as I felt myself in my previous “home”. The great creativity for me being the stable one then was having an open door to so many visitors (perhaps I should write that story as The Stablehand!)
It was the summer of 1976, and I was on my way to the Dominican Republic. It wasn’t a vacation, but a life-altering trip—I had enrolled in the Faculty of Medicine at a university located in a town about 45 minutes away from Santo Domingo, the island’s capital.
It was early dusk when the plane landed, and we deplaned on to the tarmac. This was mind-boggling, and my brain was already telling me that this was not going to be the adventure I had imagined. The idea that I had to live on this island for the next four years frightened me.
Going through Customs was chaotic and unorganized and there was a non-existent queue at the taxi stand. The drivers lunged at the arriving passengers fighting over the chance to obtain their next fare. It was akin to a feeding frenzy.
The ride to the town on the two-way highway was depressing and what accentuated my disillusionment even more was the darkness all around. I found some comfort in watching the ocean flanking the highway and the myriad of stars in the dark sky. Where were the lights on the highway? Non-existent—like my evanescent hopes.
Arriving in town was an eye-opener—it was totally dark. Of course, I found out later that the power outages were a common occurrence in the town and in many other places on the island. Throughout my stay on the island, I experienced so many power outages that they didn’t even faze me. They happened at the most inopportune times—while showering, studying, eating, getting ready to go out, at the movies, etc., etc., but I digress.
The phone call to my parents that night informing them about my arrival was difficult. I lied to them about my surroundings, and I forced myself to sound positive so they wouldn’t worry. So, with the promise of calling them once I was settled, I hung up. The mere action of putting the handset down symbolized the idea that I would be cut off from my family. It was also the first step in the road to my maturing as a responsible adult.
That same night, I decided to bite the bullet and follow through with what I had originally set out to do—study hard and graduate in four years. Studying hard— which I always liked to do—and making the best of the situation was what centered me, and it helped me integrate within the island culture. In the years spent there, I made many good friends and many good memories. I was also able to travel to many other places within the island and acquaint myself with its natural beauty. In the end, I attained my goal and returned to the United States a more accomplished and self-assured individual.
A great sharing of a milestone memory.
I can feel the tug of contradicting emotions in the paragraphs.
The romantic sense of freedom of leaving and studying v’s the reality of cultural clash – chaotic customs and lunging taxi drivers.
Talking to parents – reassuring them that everything is fine – fighting the urge, perhaps, to succumb to shock and fear and cry them the truth.
Claire this is a lovely memoir piece that I feel could be really drawn out with juicy description.
– City smells, noise/words of lunging/fighting drivers, greasy hair, glinting teeth, sweaty arm pits, shadows of building in the darkness, biting your lip as you tell your parents the opposite to the truth, the emotions you were feeling and how your body was responding.-
All this fear and change and catapulting into the unknown and then at the end achieving your goal and creating life time memories – the latter for another bunch of beautiful memoir stories I’m sure.
Thanks for sharing
Dawn 🙂
Thanks for having taken the time to read my post. It is true that I could have expanded my post with more detailed descriptions, and believe me there are many to this story, but I wanted to maintain a certain brevity to my piece in order to keep my readers’ attention. In its expanded version, this could certainly be a chapter to my memoir, which will be written eventually.
Your ideas to expand the piece with details of the happenings at the airport, the images of the car ride from the airport to the university town and my emotions as I was talking to my parents are “spot on” and I appreciate them.
You have a wonderful way with words and with expressing raw feelings. It really draws a reader into whatever you write. As a matter of fact, your writing reminds me of a blogger who used to post on another blog that I frequent on a daily basis. Thanks again for your input. Be well. Claire
No worries.
What is the other blog Claire I’d love to have a look?
I do eventually hope to publish something – a bit more substantial than these short practices anyway. 🙂
BTW I enjoyed the brevity – I simply got excited about the juicy details lurking in the background.
Love your work and the glimpses into parts of your life.
Warm Regards
Dawn
Dawn, the blog I mentioned is called First 50 Words and its about daily prompts for writing practice. The link is first50.wordpress.com I was also checking out one called wordhaus where you can actually send in submissions. You may like this one, so check it out. Claire
Absolutely amazing. It’s unimaginable to go through that, but you did. It’s admirable. Thank you for sharing.
Reagan, thanks for your comment. I really appreciate it. Be Well. Claire
This so resonates with me, both as a coming of age experience and a culture shock experience. Well done. Also, kudos to you for sticking with it and coming out the other side.
Thank you some much for your comment. I appreciate it. This is definitely a coming of age experience. The one saving grace for me was that I spoke the language, so that obstacle was definitely out of the way. I guess the old adage is true: Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Be well. Claire
You have a nice writing style. It does sound like a chapter out of a memoir. I feel like I am there experiencing what you are saying. I like a lot of the descriptive words you use.
And you had gone through a lot, which makes a good story, living in a remote town away from what you know. A friend of mine was taken to live in Bangladesh with some of his family there and he remarked how hard it was, that it was different then being in America.
But you became more determined to finish your schooling and you came out on the other side, more confident in yourself then before.
Thanks for your comments, Sandra, and you may have hit the nail on the head when you mentioned that this sounds like a chapter out of a memoir because I’m thinking of expanding the piece in order to include it in my memoir, which I’ll write eventually.
It is always difficult to extricate yourself from your comfort zone, and this was indeed a coming of age experience. Thanks again for taking the time to read my post. Be well. Claire
Everyday it feels like I deal with questions nipping at me, making fill with insecurities. So I can relate with this article. I remind myself how I haven’t really gotten out there and met my goals to write towards my current WIP everyday. I spend a lot of time still wanting to do more of a freewrite and I have been slowly working to tame the beast and control myself a bit and stick to a scheadule.
The one thing I tell myself that makes me feel better about this though, is that I don’t have to work way out of my comfort every day. As long as I am pushing myself just a little, I know that I will get a lot farther then I am now as a result. Little bits progress regularly adds up.
Sometimes I think that because writing is hard for me that this means I am not really a writer. That people who are writers and write books have an easy time, and that the words just are always flowing out of their minds and on pages as naturally as walking or breathing.
Though I am uncomfortable by my lack of progress at times, I know it is helping me by pushing me to keep trying.
Besides finishing projects, there is one more issue that I have. I think in my mind it is something other writer’s are having. For that day when I do finish something, how hard will it be to be known? And I think about numbers of books out there, which of course is staggering and I wonder, will there be a place for me as a writer?
I had a friend tell me before not to persue writing/art, basically my chief interests in life, and that I wasn’t ready for that. And that phrase keeps repeating in my head and I find myself wondering, am I good enough to be a writer? I can’t really answer that question. I just push forward and remind myself that I make my own reality. I am responsible for what happens in my life. And if I do fail it is ultimately my fault. But I won’t forgive myself if I don’t try.
Writing can definitely be tough sometimes–I think for anyone–but it is so wroth it. Thanks for sharing this, Sandra. Keep up the writing. 🙂
Thank you Joy. I appreciate the encouragement.
Hi Sandra
Its true the ebb and flow of cautious or courageous, certain or uncertain is a reality for us all. I love to write therefore I say “Yep. I’m a writer.”
I write for writing’s sake. It feels good and when it doesn’t well I still give it a go.
Am I good enough? Pfftt. Let others decide that.
Gee one day I might even get feedback, edit drafts, send/submit/publish something. Who knows? I guess what Im saying is do it for yourself first. 🙂
As Marianne’s post says:
I am a writer. I am creative. I am intuitive.
A great mantra series – and useful in both the ebb and the flow.
Regards
Dawn
Thank you so much Dawn. I agree, I need to do it for myself.
Sometimes life changes in the smallest of places.
Katy fiddled with the toggles on her bag and glanced around the small crowded cafe that was quickly filling with mid morning clamour, fresh friendly greetings and brisk whips of air that followed each body in from the cold. She checked her watch, pulled a dog-eared breakfast menu from the chrome stand at the end of the servery and pretended to read.
Katy was not accustomed to arriving early. Her last minute in-a-hurry approach to life always led to being 15 minutes late for any meeting, catch-up or social rendezvous. Indecision bled from a growing sense of isolation. Alone. Alone in a new town, a foreign coffee shop and nobody here to greet her. Nobody here to sweep her attention and guzzle her in to warm interaction.
Katy shivered, uncertainty crept across her brow. She loosened her cotton scarf and let her eyes dart about the room seeking sanctuary. She spotted a small circular table in the far corner and took six decisive steps. A bold surge of bravado strapped up her shoulders and offered momentary relief from the panic that was banging at her heart.
The far corner offered full view of the comings and goings.
“Can I get you something?” A smiling, brace toothed teen asked.
“Oh, um, some water please. I’m just waiting for my friend to arrive.”
“Sure.” Brace toothed teen smiled, and walked away.
Katy reached into her soft leather bag and pulled out her phone. She pressed and scanned, and pressed and scanned then flipped the cover shut. She looked out of the small steamy window.
Katy was early. Ten minutes early to be precise. She smiled. She let a small giggle escape and find its way among the clatter of voices and cutlery and barista grinding and steaming milk. She rearranged her bottom on the hard lime plastic moulded chair. A little more comfort relieved the tension in her thighs and she leaned back a little. There was something new and exciting about this before unseen availability of time. A small freedom that had until now been elusive. A stretch in the elasticity of daily life that Katy had subdued, filled up, contracted into fluffs of activity, even anxiety.
She stretched her arms above her head, looked up to the ceiling and her smile stretched in to this micro discovery. A glint of realisation shimmered across her mind. Katy realised how often she had rushed in late expecting to be greeted, then tripping over herself with apology for her tardiness. A habit. A control. An avoidance of being alone.
And here was an opportunity. In this unexpected uncluttered moment Katy could take the time to stop and see. She could sit in the spaciousness of ‘unhurried’ and breathe in its bounty. Katy felt the whirl of cafe busy-ness slow down and warp and weave it’s way through 10 minutes (or more)of space. She became a spectator of excess activity. She felt the luxury of time as it settled opposite her in the empty set.
Katy relaxed. Her shoulders softened. Her lips released the pursed pout of purpose. Her mind could run no further. The corner forbade it. Instead Katy allowed herself a lesson. A life changing lesson: the joy of time.
Contra to her many year ‘White Rabbit’ habit – “I’m late. I late. For a very important. Date!”- this different cafe in a different neighbourhood had shaken her awake. By not knowing where she was going she had arrived, unexpectedly early, and, only time was there to meet her.
“A new cafe and new friend” she said quietly to herself.
“Sorry. What was that. Sorry I’m late. Wow the weather is mad. I couldn’t find a car-park.” Stella Boccoli, Katy’s first new client in the city, gasped as she pulled the lime green chair from the table and shook her damp hair free from the grip of her winter scarf. “Seriously challenging this lack of parking. I’m so sorry…”
Katy smiled as if she was looking in a mirror and simply held her hand out. A friendly welcome, a greeting. And, a farewell.
I like your post. Your writing naturally flows, and the way you describe your surroundings puts the reader right on the spot. I certainly can associate with the café scene. Good job!
Thanks Claire. Its nice to get feedback.
Much appreciated.
Dawn
Beautiful! Katy is easy to relate to. Thanks for sharing.
Thanks for reading and commenting.
Much appreciated.
Dawn
Beautiful writing. Katy is a very compelling character. I love the lesson: the joy of time.
Cheers Anna.
Yes the joy of time. So delicious.
Thanks for reading and commenting.
Warm Regards Dawn
I like how you have a good grasp on writing the right amount of detail. You don’t bog down with details, but there are plenty of details to really get into the scene. I enjoy your writing.
Thank you.
It all depends on what the reader likes.
Warm Regards Dawn
I’m a person that doesn’t like change, so anything out of the ordinary can be daunting. Recently, my family and I moved into a house. We’re renting the house, but it’s still stressful. But having a house means more space than what we’re used to. In apartments, I didn’t have a writing space. Now, I do. It’s in a corner of the living room. I’m glad we’ve moved into our house.
Thanks, Marianne. It’d interesting because over the years writing has both broken my heart (when I’ve lost literary agents, or my novels didn’t sell), then saved me (a new idea strikes my heart and I start writing again, or I come to peace with a situation). Daily journaling always grounds me and reminds me of your #1 truth: I AM A WRITER.
Unfamiliar Territory
“Oh God, what have I done,” I prayed as the plane banked in
a wide lazy turn in preparation for the runway. I leaned over my daughter and
looked out at the unfamiliar landscape. Orange red roofs stretched in an
unbroken sea, beyond that the actual sea, green blue. It was lovely … and
alien.
For 12 years I’d been a stay at home mom with a husband in
manufacturing management, in Indiana. Suddenly our course was taking a serious
left turn. After he’d gone back to school to get his teaching certificate then made
an exhaustive (and exhausting!) job search, I was following my husband, of all
places, to Portugal! Now we were landing with three kids, 15 suitcases, three
backpacks, two briefcases, and a wheelchair. We didn’t know the language, didn’t
know a soul, didn’t even have a place to live yet!
For four years we lived in Portugal, serving and teaching at
an international Christian school. How did I find my center? The truth is, I’m
not sure I ever did. I was always a fish out of water. I made friends. I
learned the language (kinda). I got by. I was even pretty content most of the
time, but Portugal never fit. It was like wearing someone else’s clothes,
someone else’s very beautiful clothes. I was still me, but, in a way, only a
shadow of me.
My heart beats for the poor, the lost, and the lonely.
Finding ways to help and heal is how I live. This part of me, the core, went
largely unfulfilled for those four years. I taught, I wrote, I sang, but there
was something missing … a big something. I was missing. Barriers of language
and opportunity caused me to be incomplete.
We loved what we did there and we were so, so sad to leave,
but like those shoes you love, but they pinch your toes and give you blisters,
there came a time when we had to let it go. Now we live in Oklahoma of all
places, still alien territory for this Michigan girl, but Oklahoma feels right.
Oklahoma fits, not because of the terrain or the dialect or the giant Walmart
stores, but because of the work, and the people.
In Oklahoma I get to be me. I still teach, I still write, I
still sing, but I get to do them all in the context of helping “at risk” kids
get a second chance. My heart beats stronger here. The work centers me.
This is beautifully writ to me. I can see that, moving to another place whose ways of being are at a cross with your ways.
Thank you Sandra.
This is a very poignant piece, Anna. I love the description of how you viewed your life in Portugal and how you felt incomplete in this foreign country. The type of work you describe as your centering factor is admirable since it fulfills you. God bless you on your life’s mission.
Thank you for the kind words Claire.
Oh this post is so timely for me! We are currently in the midst of moving from my city home of over 13 years to a smaller town where I know no one. Thanks for these grounding ideas and I hope you are feeling even more settled as time passes.
-Dana