Holding Space for Life's Groundlessness

The first time I went, the Chinese to English translation on the women's phone asked, "Are you a hunchback?" Today, after I had gotten myself ready in the same room as before, she spoke into her phone again, and when she showed it to me, I read, "...and then honey let me take a look at one of your breasts." To be clear, I was not at the doctor's office; I was about to get a facial. Life lived in translation can offer moments of levity into an otherwise blue day. After further translations, I realized that while I had asked for an exfoliation of my décolletage, the esthetician thought I was asking for other services.

I still have no idea what she had planned to do with my breast, but I was very happy with my 4.5 hours of skin services today. While a great series of communication was lost in translation during my time at the skin clinic, I am certain that the final translation came through just as it should have. "You're so hip. You look so young," she said as I dressed to leave. This lovely woman who first asked about my hunchback -- I am still curious to know what she was really asking about as I checked in full when I got home and I do not have a hunchback --does know how to spin some words that'll get me to come back in the door and spend my retirement fund on my skin.

I have been free to go to roam the city again -- indulging in not just facials, but pedicures and manicures and good food, too -- for the past 8 days. Quarantine here in Shenzhen was one of the harder things I have had to bare down and endure in some months. The day I was released, I first went for a hike with Katie. I nearly tackled her in an embrace when I first saw her. Humans are just not meant to go without physical touch for days on end. By the last of those 15 days in total, I felt quite energetically depleted; all of the cat cuddles just could not take the place of hugs from friends.

Gin and Tonics at La Maison. So crisp and fresh and sweet to sip with this dear friend.

On this first day of my newfound freedom, my SIS community really showed up to celebrate. Educators know how to happy hour better than any other profession, I would argue.

In Shenzhen, restaurants are open for dining in and families are meandering along the boardwalk in larger numbers. In these ways, parts of life resemble what we used to know as normal.

In other ways, life is heart-breakingly abnormal. As part of an international school community, my close friends and students are spread all over the globe right now. China's borders are still closed to foreigners, and so as I write tonight, a number of my best friends are in North America. Several of these friends will be moving to other countries in June, having signed contracts for the new school year with other great schools in Asia and Europe. Soo it is that our final months that were supposed to be lived with Sunday brunches and toasting friendship on The Strip with bubbly glasses of Prosecco are now spent in Zoom.

In reflecting on the many plans and hopes and expectations that feel laid to waste right now, I am reading and rereading words from Alicia Key's recently published memoir More Myself: A Journey.

Life's groundlessness. I keep rolling these two words over and over in my mind. They elicit both anxiety and awe. The seeker in me knows how to open up to and delight in the unpredictable nature of life; the anxiety in me keeps trying to will the Universe to offer shiftlessness. Inertia, though, is not the natural state of the world, so I am curled up tonight pondering How do I find my stillness in the presence of so many uncertainties? There is no life hack, no 600-word article to read, no easy answer in response to this question. I am conjuring a great deal of patience and grace and breathwork to create, if only fleetingly, moments of acceptance.

Ms. Keys is really getting to my heart and soul tonight, not just with the words from her memoir, but with the lyrics to her songs. When I walked into the house from my facial, I turned on Spotify. The first song to come on was Distance and Time from her 2009 album entitled The Element of Freedom. Keys dedicates the song to "all of the lovers who can't be together, separated by distance and time." Listen, I suppressed a sob as she started singing, "You are always on my mind. All I do is count the days. Where are you now?"

There was only one thing to do in this moment: go into the kitchen, take out candied ginger, chocolate, and almond butter, and mix and match until my heart was distracted by the sweetness now sitting in my stomach.

The heaviest part of the uncertainty of the coming months is connected to so many people that I love. Will I be able to return to the States for part of the summer? Will I be able to travel in Asia? When will I hug and kiss and love up on so many of my favorite people? My mind is rolling on and on with questions about what the future holds.

In the present, a candle flickers to my left. While I am typing in my large blue chair, my gaze falls onto the marble sitting Buddha in front of me. And I think of what my therapist has reminded me of recently as she has said, "Jamie, put your feet on the ground. Feel that you are grounded." When Tracy urges me to do something, I generally heed her advice. I have revisited the action of placing my feet on the floor, closing my eyes, simply being with my breath as I bring awareness to the way my body can feel strong and steady.

I do believe it is true, we can be grounded in ourselves in the midst of life's groundlessness. It is not without suffering. Tonight, it is not without an achy heart. But I am working to feel the roots that I have planted beneath the path so that even when that ground shakes, I believe in my ability to balance.

"What is fear? Non-acceptance of uncertainty. If we accept that uncertainty, it becomes an adventure." ~Rumi

Even when the physical distance between me and many of my loved ones feels tangible tonight, I am grateful that near or far, we are still also rooted in that love for one another. I hope you feel my love today. I am sending it out from Shenzhen to many corners of the world tonight.

XOXO

Writing from Day 8 of Quarantine: A Toast to Paradox

After over a week of isolation, I now know something about what an animal in a zoo feels like. Sort of. In the sense that I’ve been taken out of my natural habitat. This is interesting, though, because as an introvert I would have argued my home is certainly my natural habitat. But 8 days into this solitude ... I’m over this shit.

Or at least the nearly absolute solitude of it. Other parts of this experience, like the ways that my community is continuing to reach me, just tickles my heart and soul. Since arriving back home on Friday night, I have been the recipient of a number of beautiful deliveries: a supply of dark chocolate, a bouquet of cat-safe flowers, two lunches of rooftop garden veggies, and ice and limes for my gin and tonics. I am ready to just be able to really give back now, and I know that the coming weeks will offer plenty of opportunities to pay it forward.

It seems that the new regulation now is that anyone returning from a country deemed a danger for importing the virus will have to do the full quarantine in a hotel room. The exception may be those with children. Hearing this news today made me ever-grateful that I returned from Thailand when I did.

I, like you, continue to work to establish a new normal and a new routine. I have let go of the notion that this time of quarantine and working from home is going to be my most productive time ever. I have learned that the mathematical equation that sums up my days is not time+energy=output; rather my days equate to time+space (minus) a-great-deal-of energy=grace to just be.

My days have still started with movement, but not long, high-intensity workouts. I hit my mat for 30-45 minutes of yoga, or a short weight workout. I thank myself for showing up.

My balcony has really become something of a haven. I move here, but I also eat here, sit and watch the world here, write here. Why haven't I been doing this all along?

During the afternoon, I connect with my students via Zoom.

Seniors who have just found out that their IB exams will be canceled.

I also use Zoom for my mid-day breaks; I meet my friends there for good laughs. I do wonder ... I wonder if Zoom and Tik Tok are in cahoots here ... just a conspiracy theory. The Tik Tok videos that come into my chats throughout my day give me so much life. In the midst of chaos, we are finding our creative outlets.

My nights are spent listening to 90s hip hop, laying on my yoga mat on the balcony, trying to get my cats to engage in photo shoots. Now, this is the real stuff of cat lady memoirs. Save me soon, please.

Being quite confined these past days has allowed me to sit in a place of awareness and this awareness has been a sensory experience. As I sit on my balcony in the morning, afternoon, and evening, I feel my senses awaken in deep ways. The sounds of the city, colors of the trees below, and textures of the yoga mat I am seated on all become palpable to me.

Indeed, there are parts of my day that I love. Watching the sun rise higher in the sky as I lay leisurely in bed in the morning and watching the sun set while I eat dinner each evening are new parts of my routine that offer a certain excitement to each day; I love enjoying the simplicity and beauty of these moments.

As in any temporal context, there are other parts of the day that are so tedious, predominantly the way I just feel so dang tired right now, the past weeks of uncertainty and ambiguity seemingly having compounded in my body. So it is that I, paradoxically, feel both exhausted and entirely alive simultaneously.

This evening I was reading from Adreanna Limbach's Tea and Cake with Demons: A Buddhist's Guide to Feeling Worthy. Chapter four begins with Tolstoy's words from Anna Karenina: "All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow." As Limbach recounts the story of the Buddha, she writes, "His origins are also a demon story, as most stories of transformation and triumph are, highlighting how we are made in the perpetual alchemy of falling apart and coming together." These words struck deep into me, for my own experience in the past year and a half; it also feels these words just ring so true for the Collective right now.

As individuals, as families, as communities, we are both falling apart and coming together on the path of novel and scary terrain. I talk to my best friend Jenn to hear about how her clinic does not have enough masks for doctors and patients, feeling like our healthcare system is ripping at the seams, to then hear and see the dozens of people I know who are making masks from fabrics and original patterns. I talk to my family and hear a certain anxiety in their messages when they consider the prospect of weeks of social distancing, to hear about them also opening up to new technology for virtual happy hours. I have felt separated from students who hit a hard place in the face of distance learning, to feel them return after so many of us have reached out with words and video conversations to embrace them in their confusion.

Sitting in an uncertain space with so many of my friends and family really beginning to process a new reality, I consider the power of how we frame that reality. As I was (again) scrolling Instagram today, I came across a post from Dr. Alexandra H Solomon. Rather than call keeping ourselves away from others "social-distancing" she coined it "cocooning." If we all enter our cocoons, we come out more beautiful than before. As with the Buddha, our transformation will happen after living in some dark spaces. After the dusk of each day is the dawn of a new morning.

To darkness, and to light.

Sending all my love,

Jame

Reporting from China: Another Call for Higher Love

I've just returned from a date with the Denson's. Dinner "out on the (ghost) town" felt like a real event given the way we've been laying so low this week. We first went to a Hong Kong-style eatery named Gaga Garden, only to walk in and find that it was closing for the night. It felt like this ...

I don't know how to smize very well, but I think it's clear that I can pout with my eyes. This look did nothing to convince Gaga to stay open an extra hour. Ho Hum.

We ventured a bit further into Seaworld and this led us to Baia, a restaurant owned by a couple of European men that serves "upper-scale" food. I had the best meal that I have had in three weeks, the amount of time that I been Candida cleansing. Alli, Charles and I had the entire restaurant to ourselves -- we did choose to eat outside in the open fresh air.

I'm ever so grateful to be a third wheel with this duo. These two are my kind of happy hour.

The fine dining dinner did feel well-deserved after finishing our first week of online teaching and learning -- as an online educator now, I am definitely learning about how to reach all of my students through various modes. Altogether, though, it seems the instruction has generally been effective this week, and I do feel connected to my students, even from a distance.

While I have worked to separate church and state, for the most part, going to school and to Buttery to type out lesson plans and send audio feedback to my kids, yesterday I decided to work from home in the afternoon. .

Mom has always said, watch your children when they are sleeping (because when they are being pills while awake you'll be able to remember that they have sweet moments).

While my new routine has begun to feel quite comfortable, my heart feels weighted with how some of the world continues to respond to the new virus that came out of a city in China that was hardly on most people's maps until last week.

My friend and her family decided to fly home while we are not physically in school. The neighbors caught wind of my friend's family's arrival and interrogated her mother about where my friend and her family had been exactly. The neighbor was worried that her child, with a more compromised immune system, might catch the virus from the family just home from China. While I think we can empathize with a mother's fears for her child, her call to my friend's mother wreaked of ignorance.

My sense of the world's perception of the virus is that it has gotten the stigma it seems to have because it came out of a wet market in a country that doesn't have "great relations" with the US. A wet market is particularly foreign in a way that incites disgust, perhaps, and misunderstanding along cultural lines.

John Pomfret, for The Washington Post, writes, "At a middle school a few blocks from my house, a rumor circulated among the children that all Asian kids have the coronavirus and should be quarantined. Misinformation has also reached higher education: In college campuses across the United States, some non-Asian students have acknowledged avoiding Asian classmates for no other reason than, well, the coronavirus came from Asia."

This is rough stuff: xenophobia, ignorance, and baseless assumptions. To look at someone as a walking virus is to deny a person the very humanity that should lead us to care more deeply for one another.

I know, though, that it's not the whole story. I know there are communities of us working to share truth and love and open our arms to one another.

And here is when I put in another plug for you to join the #internationalhigherlovedanceteam. I have a handful of videos so far from friends and family, and it would be amazing to muster up more, of everyone dancing to Higher Love. Do whatever your soul moves you to do as Whitney belts out:

Think about it, there must be a higher love

Down in the heart or hidden in the stars above

Without it, life is wasted time

Look inside your heart, and I'll look inside mine

Things look so bad everywhere

In this whole world, what is fair?

We walk the line and try to see

Falling behind in what could be, oh

Bring me a higher love

Bring me a higher love, oh

Bring me a higher love

Where's that higher love I keep thinking of?

To Ghent We Went ... and Amsterdam too

I first have a request: anyone who has heard of Ghent, raise your hand. I'm squinting through space to count about three hands raised. Mine is among those three hands now, but three weeks ago I thought that Ghent was the name of our street that our hotel was located on in Brussels, thus I booked Mom, Gram and I train tickets from Amsterdam to Brussels. Ghent, though, is not in Brussels, but located about a 30-minute train ride beyond Brussels.

Before I go on about our time in Ghent, and what a fortunate mistake our hotel booking was -- though, of note: Mom said she did not mistakenly book a hotel in Ghent, that she meant to book a hotel in Ghent because she read that Ghent is quaint and cute to which I replied, "Why did you let me buy train tickets to BRUSSELS then?! ... but I digress ... -- I think you must see the way that we traveled to Ghent.

American travelers with their oversized luggage. (It is important to take 10 pairs of shoes, two winter jackets per person, 7 kilos of American snacks -- including Grandma's homemade almond butter cookies -- and 3 purses for a 7 day trip. I am actually not sure if that is what we each packed. But it felt that way.)

After loading all of that luggage on the train ourselves -- we are hella tough but a strapping lad would have been welcome -- even Mom turned to booze. She had been dry her entire 59 years until this day.

Kidding. She didn't actually take the shot. But as you can see Gram was well ready for a cocktail when we finally reached our destination. In Ghent.

When we arrived to our lovely Belgian town -- after having passed through a Brussels that looked a bit rough around the edges -- we were delighted to find an old Medieval city, or, as a resident of the city named it: a very modern city in an old jacket.

Looking back at this scene, I miss the slower pace of small town Europe. Life in Shenzhen seems to moves at light speed; in Ghent a woman can take a bit more time to gaze around and contemplate what it feels like to take a few breaths.

Perhaps one of the best things we did in our cozy host city was to take part in a free walking tour. One of the most fascinating facts we learned from our congenial guide was that Ghent used to be the 2nd largest city in Europe -- from the 12th - 15th centuries. I'm tucking that tidbit away for my next trivia night.

Liam (I think that was our lovely guide's name, but I also have Brahm written in my notes and now I don't know what that means, so maybe this is Brahm) schooled us on so much history here.

Also of historical note: During the middle ages, beer was safer to drink than water, so having your pint at the local watering hole could simply be considered health care. I wonder if I could take this up with my insurance company today?

As an English teacher, I find the etymology of words and phrases quite interesting. As we meandered about the town, Liam (or Brahm) told us where the phrase "stinking rich" stems from. Let's take a moment to make some guesses ... and while you are crafting your response, another scene to take in ...

Graffiti is kept off of most streets and buildings as the city provides space for street art. These are students working on a school project.

So, stinking rich? Well, the wealthier you were, the closer to the alter in the church you were buried, but graves were not closed off properly, thus the flesh would begin to rot and smell up the space. I think I'll stick with being potpourri poor. I believe this phrase was first coined in 2007 when friends would leave flowers at the door of humble, poorly paid teachers.

In addition to being a bit smelly, we also learned of the torture rooms inside of the castle in Ghent. As I have learned about history, there have been eras that have seemed rather appealing. The 1920s, for example ... like, I think I would have loved to have been a flapper. A resident of Medieval Ghent, though? Hard pass.

A Belgian and her Belgian wafel (not considered breakfast food in Belgium, but rather a midday treat).

Il Folletto was our best meal in Ghent. The atmosphere, hospitality and pasta were on point.

Ghent by moonlight. I loved the break from the neon lights in Asia. There was a serenity here.

Three generations of love.

So, that was Ghent. We're glad we went. I did not add up all of the money that we spent. And so, to you I toast tonight, Ghent, with my dark Belgian chocolate in hand. Cheers!

Before we arrived to Ghent, we did spend four days in Amsterdam. Gram is our guest writer for this part of the post today. She spent a bit of time journaling each night, capturing the moments of the day. This is what she has to say ...

Saturday
Interesting hotel. Trying to discover heat. Fans blowing cold air. Need wool socks. 

The Linden Hotel was quaint, with a prime location and offered delicious animal gummies at the front desk. The rooms are quite tiny, but I loved how cozy it felt.

Our room is small for three, but the shower is really nice. We could shower together. 🤔. Our hotel, the Linden, is a quaint hotel located in the center of Old Amsterdam. It is perfect for our needs, as the narrow streets are lined with restaurants, pastry shops, clothing and gift shops, and bars. We are able to walk to most other sites from here. 

Waiting for Jamie to arrive. Anne is napping. Not much sleep on the plane. (Something I wish I would have acquired from my mother is her ability to sleep. For long hours.)

Outlets need converters in order to charge devices. Hoping Jamie will figure it out. (As it turns out, I did not bring my converter, thus failed at being of help here.)

Jamie arrived around 7:00. She was starving. We walked to a restaurant and had a delicious meal. Anne ordered a Dutch dish—mashed carrots, potatoes and onion with a meatball in the center. Dad would have loved it. I had pork tenderloin with pepper gravy, and Jamie had meatballs with salad. (Meatballs with peanut sauce are where it is at.)

Sunday
Slept til 9:00. Showered and hit the streets. Anne and I did a canal tour for an hour. Very informational. The architecture reminded me a bit of Boston. Amsterdam was founded in the 1200’s. That is a long time ago!!! The canals are man made, and many of the buildings were built in the 1600’s. 

Anne and I bummed the streets. Went into a couple shops—high end. Anne tried a pair of boots, but they didn’t have her size. I wanted a sweater, but it was $$$$$$. Not in my budget. We stopped at a pub and sat at the bar. The owner, George, gave us a piece of his pizza. So good. I had wine. 

While Mom and Gram were on the canal and shopping, I was having coffee with Ashley, a fellow Gustie trackster. We hadn't seen each other in 12 years; it was a treat to catch up with her and meet her boyfriend and his sweet daughter who is taking this photo.

In the afternoon, we toured the Anne Frank house. As a taxi driver said to us later that day, “Why would a tourist want to pay to see her house when she isn’t there, and leave depressed?” Good question!!

We dined at an Italian restaurant, but were disappointed. I had lasagna—no meat and no noodles. Different and not what I as looking forward to. Anne had steak, and Jamie ordered a salad and tomato soup. We will do better with selecting restaurants. (Good thing we found our true Italian in Ghent.)

Monday
This was an exciting day. We did a bus and water tour—visiting three provinces of Holland. Our first stop was populated with wind mills. A miller who worked one of the mills showed us how logs are cut into lumber. Other mills in the province are used for making grain and Linseed oil (which I purchased at a shop.) A mill can also mix paint. 

Watching windmills can really sooth a sou.

Oh, the vibrant colors ... this pictures tickles my senses.

We bused to our next stop where we learned how wooden shoes are made. There were hundreds of shoes hanging from the ceiling to dry. They need to dry for three weeks before they can be finished—sanded, polished and decorated. 

The engineering behind these machines was brilliant. We learned that these wooden shoes are worn since it is so wet in Amsterdam, and work outside is made more comfortable if one can wear the wooden shoes which keep out the water.

From there, we boarded a ferry where Jamie and I quickly ordered a beer. I chose the beer of the land—Heineken—Jamie ordered Robuust. 😃 Oh yes, Anne had apple pie. 

At the third province, we learned how cheese is made, and purchased enough to increase the weight of our luggage by a few pounds!!! Oh my 😖. The cheese was delicious, and we couldn’t resist. We ate lunch at one of the restaurants—fish and chips which we shared. Following lunch, Jame and I snacked on pancakes with fresh fruit—covered in chocolate!! We didn’t see the sign, “Don’t fed the birds.” So, the birds were happy. 

Gram did not feed the swans, but I do not have a picture of the full-bellied birds, and this captured a lovely moment of the day.

A final lesson for us on this tour was a demonstration on how waffles were made. These are not like the waffles we make at home, but very thin cookie-like waffles filled with caramel or chocolate. They are good, but we didn’t buy them to take home. They are available at our hotel for our enjoyment. (Gram is writing about Stroopwafels -- check out this page for where to find the best in Amsterdam.)

From here, we boarded our bus and traveled back to Amsterdam. Anne rested, I walked the streets and Jamie found a workout class to attend. 

Just living that sweat life all over the globe. I loved the class at High Studios -- it was Barry's Bootcamp-esque and set me up with those good chemicals. Love me my endorphins.

Jamie chose an amazing restaurant for dinner. The food was excellent!! The cocktails were pretty good too. (Gram is talking about Morgan and Mees. It was Ashley's suggestion and it did not disappoint. It was quite posh.)

Tuesday
We slept in again, then leisurely showered and dressed for another rainy day. We shopped as we walked to see the Red Light District—so I could say we did—then had lunch at a restaurant Gina suggested. We then taxied to the Van Gogh Museum where we spent an enjoyable period of time learning about Vincent’s life and art. 

In the evening, we taxied in the pouring rain to Central Station where we met Jamie’s Gustavus classmate (Ashley) and her male friend. From the station, we boarded a ferry which took us to an area where we had dinner. To get to the restaurant from where the ferry dropped us off, we walked quite a distance—again in the pouring rain. I had no idea what was in store for us when I put on open toe sandals for the evening. That walk required RAIN BOOTS!!! and a raincoat. It rains horizontally here, so an umbrella doesn’t help much. We were wet and cold when we arrived at the restaurant. 

The atmosphere in the restaurant was warm and friendly, and dinner was accompanied and complimented by fun conversation. 

Following dinner, we called a taxi to take us to our hotel. It was late, and we had had a full day.

Wednesday
We are schlepping our heavy luggage and boarding the train to Belgium. Despite the sunny sky, it is once again raining. (And this brings us to the very beginning, a very good place to start ... )

In closing, the trip was picturesque, with a good dose of adventure, and plenty of charm.

At one point, as Gram and Mom were walking down the middle of the street, taking their lives into their own hands, I turned to Gram and said, "We're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. Come up on the sidewalk." It seems, though, that we did land somewhere over the rainbow.

What does 'expat' have to do with it?

A few days ago, I opened up a message from Mom to Linds, Cass and me. Within the blue iMessage bubble, I found a photo of the four of us getting pedicures six years ago on that date. It was the eve of my move to Ecuador.

It is interesting to read Mom's caption here. At the time, I hardly knew how I would last two years abroad. And now two years has has turned in many more. There is just no predicting ...

The little clock with the arrow going around to the east transported me back in time. I remember coming home from our spa time to opening up two large suitcases in the living room. Piles of clothes were strewn all over. My mind was running amuck about how to even begin to fill the suitcases. And this is where sista-friends always come in first. Linds and Cass developed a system and set to work stowing away the pieces of my life that made the cut to travel south with me, beginning my life as an expat.

So much has changed and evolved and shifted since that evening. Here is something that has not: I still cannot be left to pack my own suitcases. They end up a scrambled 70 pound -- no hyperbole here -- mess that one or both of my sisters has to unpack and repack before I lug them through security.

Those first months in Quito, Ecuador, as a newly minted international school teacher, were exciting in many ways, and excruciating in others. The pain of missing home -- so visceral that it could knock the wind out of me. I had some sanity savers, though, in the friends that I was making. And as Trini, my madre in Spain, had been my earthly angel in my study abroad experience in college, Analuisa, my Ecuadorian cousin in spirit, became my South American angel.

I had met Analuisa many years before, when we were both primary school children when my Aunt Abby and Uncle Tony became her legal guardians. As she became a member of the Baci/Marquart crew, what I remember most in thinking back to those times was what she taught us. She would make empanadas, delicious crispy half moons filled with meet and vegetables, to add to the table for holiday meals. Analuisa also taught the North American chiquitas how to line dance -- she was bound to have better rhythm than us, she hails from a village that salsas day in and day out.

And so it was, that when I arrived to Quito as a thirty-year-old woman, her family embraced me, offering me delicious guaguas de pan and colada morada on the holiday for Día de los Difuntos, and smiling as I spoke to them in broken Spanish.

During my time in Ecuador, I would be fortunate to also join Analuisa's family for her niece's quinceañera in Mascarilla. During this day, I saw how Ana's family joined efforts to prepare a feast for guests, I was a parishioner in the church as the special ceremony took place, crowning Meli a young woman, and I was a delighted but shy participant at the dance later that evening.

walking towards the church ...

looking muy guapo outside the church....

about to step into the ceremony that will mark Meli's passage from childhood to adulthood

The time Analuisa and I spent hanging out together in the city or taking a trip to Mascarilla to visit her family cut through the loneliness and saved my sanity in those most intense months of culture shock.

And then it was, some six months in to my life as an international school teacher, that I reemerged from the confusion, anxiety and stress of culture shock. It would be many more years before I would feel that I was really on steady ground as an expat.

When I was home this summer, during an evening with a dear friend and fellow English teacher, I identified myself as such. "What's an expat," she inquired. "An American living abroad," I replied. I immediately thought of Gertrude Stein and Earnest Hemingway as scenes from Midnight in Paris played across my mind.

As an American passport holder, I chose to move abroad, taking advantage of the privilege afforded me simply because of where I was born. While I struggle with where the Unites States of America is along social, political and philosophical lines, I certainly was not forced out. As a white American, I do not generally feel unsafe within the border of the USA. And I do feel some sense of power to make positive changes were I to choose to live in the United States.

I chose to venture from home in search of adventure; my sojourner spirit had surfaced. With an education that an upper-middle class life afforded me, I was able to land a good job abroad. And thus I get to sit comfortably in a category called expat.

In my experience as an expat at an exceptional international school, I have access to extensive services. I am offered daily assistance on how to navigate banking, housing and my visa. As an expat, I am left rather unjudged at the fact that I know fewer than 200 Mandarin words. As an expat, my working conditions are comfortable and safe. Due to my own privileged circumstances, I can utter things like, "the world is my oyster", feeling empowered to live in just about any country of my choosing.

I do not mean to cast a simplistically fairytale filter onto living abroad. For so much of my time abroad, it has felt like I have had dozens of tabs open in my brain, slowing my processing system to the speed of the super-sized snails that I now see slowly glide across the sidewalk in Shenzhen. At the end of so many days, even getting up to file my nails has seemed an exhausting task.

There can be many initial frustrations to living abroad, and at moments, situations may feel insurmountable. When my close friends Alli and Charles moved from Quito to Shenzhen, Alli found herself on the corner of an unknown street outside of Ren Ren Le (a store akin to Walmart), uncertain of how to flag a taxi, unable to tell the driver the name of her apartment in Mandarin, and so weeping in frustration. Anyone who has lived in a foreign place can recount many experiences like this.

It also warrants acknowledging that an altogether positive time abroad is not every expat's experience. There are spouses that are left alone while their partner travels, those that turn to excessive drinking in order to distance themselves from the difficulties of living and working in foreign lands and expats who have been transplanted by their work rather than a whole hearted-choice. There is resentment, affairs and dysfunction in the memoirs of many expats. I am fortunate that these are not part of mine.

Today, as a rather content expat, I am sitting at a new eclectic cafe that has opened near my apartment as a friendly rain falls outside the floor to ceiling windows, contemplating the privileges of my life while so many thousands of others around the world are having vastly different experiences because rather than expats, they are considered part of other categories: the asylum seeker, the refugee, the immigrant and now the evacuee.

I am remembering back to the year that, as a young girl, Analuisa's visa was revoked, and she was not allowed to return to the States for that school year, for unknown reasons. I am thinking about how more recently we spoke about her returning to the States to visit her North American family, but again, she was not granted a visa for no clear reason.

Recently I was reading an article in The Atlantic entitled, "‘Expat’ and the Fraught Language of Migration". The article provides reflective questions to ponder when considering the connotations that accompany the labels we put on different groups. Yasmeen Serhan asks her reader, "But what defines an “expat”? Does it matter whether you are coming from a richer country, or how long you intend to stay? At what point are you an “immigrant” instead?"

When I think about my own experience as an expat, and what I know about the experience of immigrants -- namely through reading fiction and non-fiction and listening to various podcasts -- to other countries, especially the United States of America, one of the stark contrasts in the nature of the experience is the expectation of assimilation.

Often when an individual or family moves from the USA to a foreign country, they are welcomed into, or at least have access to, an expat community in their host city. Between my own experiences in Ecuador and China, and those of my friends who have lived in places from Doha, Qatar to Aberdeen, Scotland, there are many reports of feeling at home away from home when we have connected with these communities. We celebrate holidays from our passport countries together, enter atmospheres where we hear the familiarity of our native tongues and participate in cultural events such as Fantasy Football drafts.

While peoples labeled asylum seekers, refugees or immigrants may find communities with others from their native lands in their new places of residence, these communities and gatherings are often met with suspicion, resentment or outright hostility. Whether it be on social media, or between neighbors, words of resentment arise towards Latino immigrants when they are viewed as taking away jobs from 'bona fide' Americans; there is a rhetoric of suspicion surrounding immigrants from predominantly Muslim countries; outright hostility rears its head when the sentiment towards Asian and Somalian communities, who are perceived to have overtaken the community in numbers, reaches the boiling point.

Asylum seekers, immigrants, refugees or expats, whichever the category we are all people born in one land living in another. But semantics matter. In the 21st century, political candidates are hotly debating the topic of immigration, not the topic of expatriation. Prior to living abroad, I reflected on my privilege less, largely unaware of how deeply it has affected the way my life has looked in the past and now in my present. Prior to living abroad, I voted in presidential elections, but as a less-informed citizen. Prior to living abroad, I did not understand the very privilege of saying, "I'm just not really interested in politics."

My current life is largely a tapestry of beautiful moments created with and by kindred souls that I have connected with for a few moments, or for many years now. But there is also a shadow side to my life outside of the United States. It is connected to the shadow that has been cast by my home country onto the peoples and places sometimes just across the border, sometimes all the way across the world.

This weekend I began listening to the memoir Notes on a Foreign Country by Suzy Hansen. As a former expat, Hansen reflects on what she is learning about the United States' role in offering aid to foreign countries, and as she is about to embark on her time abroad as a resident of Istanbul, Turkey, she asks herself, "But what would I learn of America that was beyond good intentions, beyond sympathy, beyond the luxury of time? What else was there?"

As Hansen went on to learn, as I have been learning, what else was there? So much more.

As Hansen recounts her conversations with her new friends, colleagues and those she interviews in Turkey, she goes on to discuss the sense of betrayal that many countries feel towards the United States, the "abuse from America for material gain." It is through her "newly recognized ignorance" that she describes the feeling she has inside as "A persistent dull ache, and a tooth that would never be the same."

My time abroad has led a blind patriotism to wane within me. Perhaps, in the best of cases, the government in office has good intentions, but often the actions of Americans towards fellow Americans, and peoples living within the borders of the United States, as well as America's actions towards foreign lands leads my heart to leak sorrow.

Ignorance is bliss, they say. But how would it serve me to go back to a time of ignorant bliss?

In moments I can find myself sinking in the quicksand of despair, but I do not, in the end, find futility. When I listen to my students discuss global issues, when I consider the selfless actions of so many of my family members and friends, when I look at the goodness in my nieces, I think that there must be hope to hold on to. That even if the fabric of my homeland's government is frayed and flawed, the hearts of so many individuals surrounding me have the capacity to weave together a tapestry of truer love.

The last six years have lent themselves to a great deal of reflection that a government and its people can represent different idealogies; the corruption of a government is not indicative in many cases of the humanity of the people within the boundaries that are governed.

I once again find words from L.R. Knost moving: "It's not our job to toughen our children up to face a cruel and heartless world. It's our job to raise children who will make the world a little less cruel and heartless." I think that it is only through our own education, and educating our children, whether they be those in our classrooms, or those in our homes, that our eyes will be opened to our calling to bring light.

So then,

“Do not be dismayed by the brokenness of the world. All things break. And all things can be mended. Not with time, as they say, but with intention. So go. Love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally. The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.”

― L.R. Knost

Tonight I am here typing, reflecting about the care and love shown to me by strangers in new lands. I wonder how we can all do a little more to offer empathy towards those we encounter who have voyaged outside of the known, by choice or by circumstance? To those living in a space that may seem less than inviting and be devoid of the sounds, smells and hugs of home, I wonder how we can each extend compassion?

note: My colleague and good friend, Faye Krouse, was instrumental in helping me process my thoughts, feelings and words for this post. While when writing about my own experiences, my words flow rather freely, I found myself a bit stuck in composing this post. Faye, thank you endlessly for engaging in so many discussions about life and writing with me. Cheers, dear friend.