I am in England and I am weary.
I am weary because the journey is long and the time difference a pain. It takes a few days to adjust.
I am weary because I landed at Gatwick, raced around the south of England delivering tired but excited children to stalwart members of the family who looked after them while I sped off to join Husband at a job interview. He was glad I was there, but it didn't make any difference. He didn't get the job.
I am weary when I read blogs written by expats. For the first time ever, I can't really be bothered to summon up an opinion on posts which I used to find fascinating, on language, culture, everyday life. Does any of it matter?
I am weary of being an expat. I am tired of people assuming I'd like to back in Britain. They're right, and they base their assumptions on what I've told them. They haven't taken liberties. But I'm annoyed at what they assume, because it somehow devalues my current life in America. I have always tried to live in the moment, not in the future. I have called our house in America "home", and called Britain "Britain". I did that deliberately, but there is also truth in it, truth that took a while to become true, but is now true. At least I think so. I don't even know any more. I feel like other people think my life is in an aeroplane in the stack above London, circling and circling, waiting patiently to land and begin the next chapter. But it's not. My life is in the Midwest, full of friends and fun and family adventure. And yet, of course, they're right, deep down I probably am circling in that stack, and that's why I'm annoyed. I'm not really annoyed with them. I'm annoyed with myself. Because I'm not as free-floating as I pretend.
I am weary when I think of Cyber Mummy. Can I be bothered to go? There's a waiting list, I believe, so I could get my money back. I'm thinking there are better things to spend that cash on. Can't I just meet up for a drink the night before with the bloggy friends I really want to see? That's the bit I honestly want to do.
I am weary when I think of blogging, because I can't keep up, and don't want to keep up. I don't facebook, I don't twitter, and I know this means that I'm on the edge of blogging, that I don't have a future. It's just a matter of time. I've always been of the opinion that there's space for everyone in the blogosphere, but I guess it's not a nice feeling to know that you're just drifting slowly to the edges, making way for the next new generation of bloggers, and the next one, and the next one.
I am weary, because there's lots I'd love to write about, and I can't, because I gave up my lovely anonymity. Writing an anonymous blog is very freeing. You can say what you like. Should I ditch The Iota Quota and start another one secretly, where I can share of myself like I used to? (Ha! Perhaps I already have and I'm bluffing you!)
I am too weary even to polish this into a reasonable piece of writing. I am just going to press "publish post" and see what you all say.
.
Showing posts with label weary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label weary. Show all posts
Friday, May 27, 2011
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
What they don't tell you about moving abroad II
Well, Bloggy Friends, you always come up trumps. You are all totally spot on, of course, and if I wasn’t so darn trapped in the physical world, I’d just curl up in a nice corner of the blogosphere, and you could all come and visit. We’d drink virtual wine that doesn’t give you a hangover or do your liver any damage, talk about virtual things and be virtually happy.
The mold in our basement would virtually go away; the people who sold us the house as having a dry basement would virtually agree to pay for the work we are needing to have done to make it so, without us having to go to virtual mediation; I would win the battle against clutter (that’s real, I’m afraid, there’s nothing virtual about clutter); I would have lots of virtual time to write and read blogs; going to the virtual gym or pool would be inherently interesting and fun rather than a necessary evil and would therefore happen, and there would be lots of virtual English countryside and sea.
Actually, I feel a bit of a fraud because in general I am feeling much happier here. The new school year has brought more opportunities to get involved in things, and to meet people. The boys have made new friends, and all seems to be going well for them. 3-yo is thriving at preschool. Life has a shape to it. A rather strange shape, with lumps and bumps where sleek lines should be, but a shape. A warty gourd rather than a smooth butternut squash, but that’s a shape. I do have time to myself (of sorts). There is still much chaos, but it is receding, and let’s face it, it never goes entirely. There are things I’m excited about: we are going to San Diego for a week in November, my mother and sister are coming for Christmas, on the strength of my blog someone has asked me to write an article for a magazine for people thinking of emigrating. There are people I like spending time with: I’m getting to know other moms at school and preschool, I’ve formed a book club with 3 other people and it’s great. So things are falling into place, and of course there’s always chocolate.
I think it is this: that moving away from home is some kind of bereavement. Everyone will tell you about the stages of grief, and how, just as life is coming together again and you seem to be making sense of it, suddenly you are plunged back into the depths. You might see why that happened - a familiar voice, a triggered memory, a smell in the air - but it might just come out of nowhere. And of course there is the delay factor. For the first while, making arrangements dominates, but then when you see that life functions, you surface and have a little more time to catch breath and reflect. Perhaps that’s where I am. Sniffing the air (but not inhaling too deeply because of the potential mold spores) and pausing for thought. Catching up with myself, and I tell you, I’ve been running so fast over the past 12 months that I’ve got to sprint fast to get me.
I never know whether blogging is really a good thing or not. It’s great to be part of a community of people who know how to hit the spot in a comment three sentences long, re-telling old truths, or giving a new insight. But I can’t help feeling it must be a bit dysfunctional. Is it stopping me making as much effort to get to know people here? You know, REAL people. Down the road people. Round the corner people. I would say not (I’ve thought about this carefully), because I think that local life happens slowly, in its own mellow time, and there doesn’t seem to be a lot you can do to hurry the process. Of course, it’s not mutually exclusive – you can inhabit real space and virtual space together.
I know myself well enough to know that if I didn’t blog, I wouldn’t have a tidier house, a cleaner house, a more focused life. I’d just let everyday tasks take longer. There'd be a bit more pottering about, maybe a bit more shopping, but not a whole lot more organising or domestics. I’m sure I’d find other ways of taking myself away from my own four walls, but I wouldn’t end up in such a wide variety of locations, with such a spread of thought-provoking and thoughtful people.
So, thank you all for your concern. Bloggy friends always come good (apart from Victoria Beckham's phone number, but please don't feel bad about that.) If I’d written a list of things I needed to hear after my last post, you’d have covered them all perfectly. Toshak!
The mold in our basement would virtually go away; the people who sold us the house as having a dry basement would virtually agree to pay for the work we are needing to have done to make it so, without us having to go to virtual mediation; I would win the battle against clutter (that’s real, I’m afraid, there’s nothing virtual about clutter); I would have lots of virtual time to write and read blogs; going to the virtual gym or pool would be inherently interesting and fun rather than a necessary evil and would therefore happen, and there would be lots of virtual English countryside and sea.
Actually, I feel a bit of a fraud because in general I am feeling much happier here. The new school year has brought more opportunities to get involved in things, and to meet people. The boys have made new friends, and all seems to be going well for them. 3-yo is thriving at preschool. Life has a shape to it. A rather strange shape, with lumps and bumps where sleek lines should be, but a shape. A warty gourd rather than a smooth butternut squash, but that’s a shape. I do have time to myself (of sorts). There is still much chaos, but it is receding, and let’s face it, it never goes entirely. There are things I’m excited about: we are going to San Diego for a week in November, my mother and sister are coming for Christmas, on the strength of my blog someone has asked me to write an article for a magazine for people thinking of emigrating. There are people I like spending time with: I’m getting to know other moms at school and preschool, I’ve formed a book club with 3 other people and it’s great. So things are falling into place, and of course there’s always chocolate.
I think it is this: that moving away from home is some kind of bereavement. Everyone will tell you about the stages of grief, and how, just as life is coming together again and you seem to be making sense of it, suddenly you are plunged back into the depths. You might see why that happened - a familiar voice, a triggered memory, a smell in the air - but it might just come out of nowhere. And of course there is the delay factor. For the first while, making arrangements dominates, but then when you see that life functions, you surface and have a little more time to catch breath and reflect. Perhaps that’s where I am. Sniffing the air (but not inhaling too deeply because of the potential mold spores) and pausing for thought. Catching up with myself, and I tell you, I’ve been running so fast over the past 12 months that I’ve got to sprint fast to get me.
I never know whether blogging is really a good thing or not. It’s great to be part of a community of people who know how to hit the spot in a comment three sentences long, re-telling old truths, or giving a new insight. But I can’t help feeling it must be a bit dysfunctional. Is it stopping me making as much effort to get to know people here? You know, REAL people. Down the road people. Round the corner people. I would say not (I’ve thought about this carefully), because I think that local life happens slowly, in its own mellow time, and there doesn’t seem to be a lot you can do to hurry the process. Of course, it’s not mutually exclusive – you can inhabit real space and virtual space together.
I know myself well enough to know that if I didn’t blog, I wouldn’t have a tidier house, a cleaner house, a more focused life. I’d just let everyday tasks take longer. There'd be a bit more pottering about, maybe a bit more shopping, but not a whole lot more organising or domestics. I’m sure I’d find other ways of taking myself away from my own four walls, but I wouldn’t end up in such a wide variety of locations, with such a spread of thought-provoking and thoughtful people.
So, thank you all for your concern. Bloggy friends always come good (apart from Victoria Beckham's phone number, but please don't feel bad about that.) If I’d written a list of things I needed to hear after my last post, you’d have covered them all perfectly. Toshak!
Sunday, October 14, 2007
What they don’t tell you about moving abroad
They don’t tell you that you will be tired for a year. That you will be tired every day all the time. That you’ll be tired in the evening when you go to bed, and you’ll see a tired face when you look in the mirror in the morning. That living outside your comfort zone is exhausting. That you will have no comfort zone for a long time, and that when it comes, it will be patchy, like pieces of a jigsaw coming together to make a tree here, a house there, a boat in the distance. You won’t be able to dwell in the patches. They won’t join up to make a whole picture. Not for a long time.
They don’t tell you that you will watch a year of films without seeing their endings. They don’t tell you that you will say to yourself “I can’t be pregnant” more often than is comfortable, thinking you recognize the first signs of that old brain-slowness and body-heaviness. They don’t tell you that you will discover you can fall asleep, sitting bolt upright on a hard wood floor, playing trains with a three year old. “Open lor eyes, Mummy, open lor eyes”, as the small sharp fingers jab at your face, making you flinch and turn away. They don’t tell you that health food shops sell a thousand different combinations of vitamins and minerals, and that your tablet of choice will be called 'Unbounded Energy'. They don’t tell you that the labels on the bottles make all kinds of claims for how their contents can help weariness of body, but none of them dares suggest they can help weariness of soul.
Weary. I like that word. I remember when my oldest started nursery, and I picked him up at the close of the afternoon session, his teacher told me “He was wearying towards the end, but he’s been fine”. To my English ears, newly arrived in Scotland, the word 'wearying' sounded like 'weeing' (a word always close to a mother's anxiety zone), and I thought what an extraordinary thing she had said. That was when I first started noticing the word 'weary'. I don’t think it was the right word for her to use. Three year olds don’t get weary. They get tired; they have low blood sugar; they get grumpy; they get tetchy. I don’t think they get weary. The old get weary. The sad, the ill, the bereaved get weary. The relocated get weary.
Grey is the colour of weary. Not early morning wispy mist horizon grey, or cold depths North Sea grey. Just dull nothing grey. Weary rhymes with dreary, with teary, and I think too it hints at fear-y. Worry is a bedfellow of weary. Weary is what you are when life is wearing. Life is wearing.
Weary makes me think of Lowry, and his grey, tired, bowed matchstick men and women. Oh dear. I’ve just looked at a few of his paintings (isn’t the internet a wonderful thing? all this at my fingertips), and I find that his people don’t look weary at all. They look rather purposeful, hurrying along with intent. They are in groups, or twos: the luxury of companionship. There’s a rather pert little dog. Oh my. I must have it bad, when Lowry looks cheerful. What next? I’d probably think Munch’s Scream was roaring with laughter. I'm not even going to look.
I can’t think of a way to end this post. I can’t think of an ingenious twist, a witty one-liner, or an appropriate reflection to wrap it cleverly up. That is rather apt, though, don’t you think? When you are weary, you can’t see an end to it at all.
They don’t tell you that you will watch a year of films without seeing their endings. They don’t tell you that you will say to yourself “I can’t be pregnant” more often than is comfortable, thinking you recognize the first signs of that old brain-slowness and body-heaviness. They don’t tell you that you will discover you can fall asleep, sitting bolt upright on a hard wood floor, playing trains with a three year old. “Open lor eyes, Mummy, open lor eyes”, as the small sharp fingers jab at your face, making you flinch and turn away. They don’t tell you that health food shops sell a thousand different combinations of vitamins and minerals, and that your tablet of choice will be called 'Unbounded Energy'. They don’t tell you that the labels on the bottles make all kinds of claims for how their contents can help weariness of body, but none of them dares suggest they can help weariness of soul.
Weary. I like that word. I remember when my oldest started nursery, and I picked him up at the close of the afternoon session, his teacher told me “He was wearying towards the end, but he’s been fine”. To my English ears, newly arrived in Scotland, the word 'wearying' sounded like 'weeing' (a word always close to a mother's anxiety zone), and I thought what an extraordinary thing she had said. That was when I first started noticing the word 'weary'. I don’t think it was the right word for her to use. Three year olds don’t get weary. They get tired; they have low blood sugar; they get grumpy; they get tetchy. I don’t think they get weary. The old get weary. The sad, the ill, the bereaved get weary. The relocated get weary.
Grey is the colour of weary. Not early morning wispy mist horizon grey, or cold depths North Sea grey. Just dull nothing grey. Weary rhymes with dreary, with teary, and I think too it hints at fear-y. Worry is a bedfellow of weary. Weary is what you are when life is wearing. Life is wearing.
Weary makes me think of Lowry, and his grey, tired, bowed matchstick men and women. Oh dear. I’ve just looked at a few of his paintings (isn’t the internet a wonderful thing? all this at my fingertips), and I find that his people don’t look weary at all. They look rather purposeful, hurrying along with intent. They are in groups, or twos: the luxury of companionship. There’s a rather pert little dog. Oh my. I must have it bad, when Lowry looks cheerful. What next? I’d probably think Munch’s Scream was roaring with laughter. I'm not even going to look.
I can’t think of a way to end this post. I can’t think of an ingenious twist, a witty one-liner, or an appropriate reflection to wrap it cleverly up. That is rather apt, though, don’t you think? When you are weary, you can’t see an end to it at all.
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