this morning i was awoken from my dream by the urgent call of the homing pigeon.
"5 more days! 5 more days!" she shouted from the tree. " 5 more days and you thought it was forever."
i had been dreaming that the floor was falling out from under me.
5 more days. i'm not ready. i'm not ready to go.
last night bryn told me that he doesn't want to go. he doesn't want to go to another school. he doesn't want to leave here and he doesn't want to go there. he asked if we really have to. can't we stay. it's heart breaking this thing really. ripping up the roots of 5 for 1. 5 well planted ones with good root systems growing strong for the one who isn't growing, the one who struggles to grow everywhere, but here her stunting is choking our growth. we are trying to find better soil for her. a garden that supports her kind of seed, a greenhouse because her fragility is great. we hope that with a lot of bracing and underpinning and careful tending and balancing of ecosystems, zoe can heal old wounds and then begin to thrive and then bloom into her own unique spectacular self.
but what of the rest of us? what of the 3 other little plants who's young-ling selves are in the throws of transition? who are being asked more of than most their age, who don't get to say 'no, we are staying, thanks but no thanks.' what of them?
this is where it all began. these walls. this cement floor. the monkeys on the roof. the call of that homing pigeon. looking out this window through this net from this bed. all this familiar will be achingly missed. at least by 5 of us.
the garden analogy is hard for me because almost every plant i've had has died. i can't grow things well. i'm bad at it. a few years ago here we bought a christmas tree with its roots in a pot and after Christmas i replanted it in the yard. it died. then our guard took some sticks, literal sticks no roots, no leaves, sticks, and stuck them in the ground and they grew into a flowering tree. so digging up and re-planting and expecting things to survive, let alone flourish, is scary for me.
thankfully, i am better with people than plants. i can help people walk in dark places because i've been in dark places myself and i know that God goes there with us. i know that life is hard and can be painful and that that is just part of it. this move will be sad and feel miserable at times and we will all cry at least once but probably more and feel mad about it and then find and sit with the truth of the loss in it. it's okay that it will hurt. pain is okay. we can look to each other and to God and we can open our hands and learn about being real as a family with our feelings. well, that is my hope and the direction i will try to point us toward. but i could end up with a bunch of angry teens and pre-teens who choose very differently.
and then what about the other side? our return? in a year (or two) i'll have three teenagers and a tween who will likely have re-rooted, grown leaves and fruit, had seasons. what if uprooting again feels like too much? what if there's anarchy? what if it becomes uprooting 4 for 2 and the 2 are mike and me?
this.
this is the hardest part. this is the third culture bit. the blessing and the curse. we belong in 2 places. we long for 2 places. 2 places feel (in)completely like home. that is the truth that we hold now and can't escape from. what i have gifted and forced upon my children. it is both magical and isolating and as i write this, i'm seeing that it is what we as a family will hold up. in listening to the promptings of God 8 years ago we were being handed a gift. the whispers that mike and i had heard through our childhoods, the leanings that lead us to east africa, the choice we made to follow that invitation - embracing that, acting on that, listening to the threads that have tracked with us both and still run strong in us - this is who we are.
the homing pigeon is right. this is forever. this life of back and forth. this life that will never go back to what was for any of us. this can no longer be 'either or' but has become 'both and', like it or not and so maybe that is the key: to love it as it is. not to resist it, not to figure it out. not to plan way ahead. not to second guess. not to fear or assume. not to overthink. not to resent, bemoan, glorify or be self-pitying about. to love it as it is- in the hard and root-ripping pain of it and the broad adventurous joy of it. in the lonely and the excitement and the shallow and the deep of it. love it as it is.
and there is real peace in that.
so that is what i will hold in these 5 days. i am going to embrace this.
this homing call.
i am going to hear it as my invitation as i first heard it way back.
my invitation to love my life here and there, 5 days and forever, as it is.
"5 more days! 5 more days!" she shouted from the tree. " 5 more days and you thought it was forever."
i had been dreaming that the floor was falling out from under me.
5 more days. i'm not ready. i'm not ready to go.
last night bryn told me that he doesn't want to go. he doesn't want to go to another school. he doesn't want to leave here and he doesn't want to go there. he asked if we really have to. can't we stay. it's heart breaking this thing really. ripping up the roots of 5 for 1. 5 well planted ones with good root systems growing strong for the one who isn't growing, the one who struggles to grow everywhere, but here her stunting is choking our growth. we are trying to find better soil for her. a garden that supports her kind of seed, a greenhouse because her fragility is great. we hope that with a lot of bracing and underpinning and careful tending and balancing of ecosystems, zoe can heal old wounds and then begin to thrive and then bloom into her own unique spectacular self.
but what of the rest of us? what of the 3 other little plants who's young-ling selves are in the throws of transition? who are being asked more of than most their age, who don't get to say 'no, we are staying, thanks but no thanks.' what of them?
this is where it all began. these walls. this cement floor. the monkeys on the roof. the call of that homing pigeon. looking out this window through this net from this bed. all this familiar will be achingly missed. at least by 5 of us.
the garden analogy is hard for me because almost every plant i've had has died. i can't grow things well. i'm bad at it. a few years ago here we bought a christmas tree with its roots in a pot and after Christmas i replanted it in the yard. it died. then our guard took some sticks, literal sticks no roots, no leaves, sticks, and stuck them in the ground and they grew into a flowering tree. so digging up and re-planting and expecting things to survive, let alone flourish, is scary for me.
thankfully, i am better with people than plants. i can help people walk in dark places because i've been in dark places myself and i know that God goes there with us. i know that life is hard and can be painful and that that is just part of it. this move will be sad and feel miserable at times and we will all cry at least once but probably more and feel mad about it and then find and sit with the truth of the loss in it. it's okay that it will hurt. pain is okay. we can look to each other and to God and we can open our hands and learn about being real as a family with our feelings. well, that is my hope and the direction i will try to point us toward. but i could end up with a bunch of angry teens and pre-teens who choose very differently.
and then what about the other side? our return? in a year (or two) i'll have three teenagers and a tween who will likely have re-rooted, grown leaves and fruit, had seasons. what if uprooting again feels like too much? what if there's anarchy? what if it becomes uprooting 4 for 2 and the 2 are mike and me?
this.
this is the hardest part. this is the third culture bit. the blessing and the curse. we belong in 2 places. we long for 2 places. 2 places feel (in)completely like home. that is the truth that we hold now and can't escape from. what i have gifted and forced upon my children. it is both magical and isolating and as i write this, i'm seeing that it is what we as a family will hold up. in listening to the promptings of God 8 years ago we were being handed a gift. the whispers that mike and i had heard through our childhoods, the leanings that lead us to east africa, the choice we made to follow that invitation - embracing that, acting on that, listening to the threads that have tracked with us both and still run strong in us - this is who we are.
the homing pigeon is right. this is forever. this life of back and forth. this life that will never go back to what was for any of us. this can no longer be 'either or' but has become 'both and', like it or not and so maybe that is the key: to love it as it is. not to resist it, not to figure it out. not to plan way ahead. not to second guess. not to fear or assume. not to overthink. not to resent, bemoan, glorify or be self-pitying about. to love it as it is- in the hard and root-ripping pain of it and the broad adventurous joy of it. in the lonely and the excitement and the shallow and the deep of it. love it as it is.
and there is real peace in that.
so that is what i will hold in these 5 days. i am going to embrace this.
this homing call.
i am going to hear it as my invitation as i first heard it way back.
my invitation to love my life here and there, 5 days and forever, as it is.
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