Bristolian Moments

A Tale Of The Fourth Of July In Pictures

2011-07-06T18:23:00.003+01:00

My neighbor pointed at the American flag that was hanging from our balcony and blowing in the wind. "What is up with the flag?" she asked. "Fourth of July," I responded. To that she said, "Sabrina, it is July 3rd. What would Thomas Jefferson say about that?"

I really don't know what Thomas Jefferson might think about celebrating 24 hours earlier. However, I think he would be proud! I still smile when I remember the BBQ we had with friends. The house was dressed in red, white, and blue (American style) thanks to my mom who sent decorations from the US last month.

The view from the garden

The flag from our balcony

He really did wear that hat!!

Equal representation? Our English friends brought this bunting.

I am aware of how far I have come with regard to settling into my life in England. Last year, I was in the throes of getting acclimated and I had not cultivated many friendships. This year, as we feasted upon chicken skewers and sausages, my eyes wandered around the table. I was so grateful for the people with whom we have chosen to share our lives.

Father's Day 2011

2011-06-19T20:47:00.002+01:00

It is a bit strange to move to a new place and integrate your old life with the new one. I want to show my father this life. Our our lives diverged when he died over ten years ago. It was as if an old film was playing and suddenly the film reel snapped. The disconnect was startling. And so, I wandered for several years trying to metaphorically knit the plastic film pieces together in my mind.

I still grapple with how to integrate his absence into my life. I keep talking to my father...in my head. I need to show him my life--everything about me in the present. It isn't just England I want him to see. I want him to see the woman I have become. When he died, I was a 23 years old. Brash and spunky, I was on a mission to change the world. With a sharp mind and quick tongue, I was going to instruct everyone (including God) how this should be done. I digress....

On this Father's Day, if I could have it my way, I would bring him to England for an afternoon.....

First, I would introduce him to my garden. I would stand between the bean plants and the roses. “See Dad, this my garden. I've been growing vegetables for two years. Remember when you and Mom grew tomatoes, beans, and corn next to the wild flowers in the yard? I did the same. Except, I don't have wild flowers, we have roses. English roses.”

I would then take him on a drive, not unlike we did when I was a child. I would show him the places in this little town that bring me joy. I might take him to an elevated and leafy position above the estuary. I would point out that just to his left he could see a wide expanse of muddy water that extends toward Wales. “This is where I come to think and meditate,” I would tell him.

On our way home, I might tell him about my work and what I now think about saving the world. I would tell him I no longer think demanding change from the world while kicking and screaming is effective. I would softly mention that I no longer want to save the world. Rather, I want to gracefully contribute to it. I want to abate suffering through beauty. I might even admit that I don't think the world needs to be saved. I think he would smile.

Next, I would bring him back home---to our home. I think he would understand us best if he saw our bookcase. I would make him a cup of tea and leave him to wander through our books. He would learn about us by seeing the topics we hold close to our hearts. Science fiction, music, politics, psychology, art, travel, DIY, history, and fiction to name a few.

Last, my husband and I would prepare a meal for the three of us. I can imagine myself eating slowly and feeling grateful for them both. As I reach across the table to gently allow my hand to brush across my husband's wrist, I would feel satisfied. In this moment, all of this would be enough.

Let's Talk About the Weather

2011-06-05T20:35:00.001+01:00

Rainy afternoon in Bristol

I jumped into the front seat of the car. “What is up with the rain in this country?” I whined. “It doesn't even look like it is raining. As soon as I get outside, I am drenched.” I sighed as I pulled the visor down to assess the damage that had been done to my perfectly blow-dried hair. My husband laughed. “That is England for you.”

Despite living in England for over a year, I remain dismayed by the weather. It is constantly changing. Past experience should have taught me to make an umbrella a regular wardrobe accessory. Recently, while searching for a new purse, it occurred to me that I should look for an attractive umbrella. “Maybe I would use it more often if it weren't black,” I muttered to myself. Despite my best intentions, I always leave my 'brolly' at home. The result is looking like a stray dog that has been caught in a monsoon.

The temperatures here swing from sunny and warm to damp and clammy in a matter of moments. Last weekend was no different. I kept peering out the window as I watched mother nature's indecisiveness. In preparation for a trip into the city, I slid into my brown wool sweater and a pair of jeans. I plunged my foot into one of my boots. “Those boots look like they need a polish,” said my husband. The soles were scuffed from treacherous walks along cobblestone streets. I massaged the toe box in an effort to remove a deep scrape. He didn't realize that they weren't usually worn in the Spring. The sweltering summer months came much earlier in Washington and they brought an extended sabbatical for my favorite shoes.

Later that afternoon, after dousing our bladders with vast amounts of Earl Grey tea and coffee, we meandered around the narrow and congested streets of Bristol. The constant drizzle and the leaping between puddles didn't please me. I tried to convince myself that the grey was palatable... even pretty.

Moments later, something caught my attention in the park across the street. I was captivated by the shades of green vegetation and stepped across the the road. “Yes, please take a picture of that,” I said to my husband. We stood in silence. I was struck with the notion everything in nature has a purpose. I often forget that life brings opportunities to see beauty in the experiences I do not like. The thing that irritates me the most provides me with nourishment. As my husband and I stood shoulder to shoulder, we took a few moments to breathe. “Ready,” he said as he touched my hand. “Let's go,” I whispered softly.


Victoria Square, Clifton, Bristol

Images: Sabrina

I Know This Place

2011-05-15T18:11:00.000+01:00

When we visit my family in Ohio, we stay with family friends. Their house, while not my childhood home, is a very vital part of what I consider to be home. It remains relatively unchanged since the days of my childhood. I awoke our first morning after a heavy and delicious slumber. As my eyelids fluttered into the morning sun, I heard a wind chime outside and I felt myself smile. I had forgotten the clinking and clanking sound and it reminded me of striking cowbells during a music class in elementary school. I seem to remember hearing the wind chime over the years as I came in an out of this house. Without another thought, I swung my hips around so that my feet dangled over the side of the bed. I plunged my toes in the plush brown carpet and set out for my day.

Later that morning I encountered the wind chime again. For some reason, when I visit Ohio, I move at a rapid pace—rushing from one place to another. I always seem to feel as if I am running out of time. I opened the front door and braced myself for the wall of icy air that would sting my nostrils and tighten my lungs. As I skidded my feet over a patch of ice, I grabbed the car handle. Shocked by the cold on the palm of my hand, I started to pull it away until I heard the wind chime. I felt as if I was caught in a trance and squeezed the handle tightly and closed my eyes. The frigid wind caressed my brown hair and I took a deep breath.

It was at that moment that a carousel of images began turning in my mind. I remembered myself at the age of thirteen as I learned to sew a dress made of rose printed fabric. I saw myself several years later when I was learning to drive. My mother was coaxing me to back our enormous Chevy Lumina down the driveway. Last, I saw my husband and I, weary and jet lagged as we hauled our luggage into the house. We had returned home for the first time from England as a married couple. “I know this place,” I whispered to myself.

There are moments in our lives that we need to sip from the cup of familiarity. Most of the time, I enjoy the adventure of my life in England. Moving here has been a winding and twisting journey that is filled with new experiences daily. I seem to thrive on being in different environments. It is probably why I happily choose to work or study in places such as Greece, Cambodia, and Costa Rica where I didn't know anything about the language and customs. However, the addiction to new experiences can be exhausting. There is only so much that one person see, touch, feel, and taste in a period of time. There is a deep need to become nourished with that which is known. To come home and to rest....

America Calling....

2011-02-04T10:51:00.000Z

Tim Beach / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

As the wheels curled up into the belly of the jet, I sighed deeply and placed my hand on my husband's knee. I allowed my head to rest on the back of my chair and exhaled slowly. I needed to go home so badly I ached. The weeks prior to our departure were filled with joyful distractions, including holiday gatherings, Christmas shopping, and packing for our trip. However, my attention was not diverted from a sensation of being thirsty for my family. Every time I pictured myself walking through the door of my mother's house, I felt my mouth go dry. Parched. I knew as soon as I returned to that which I knew, I would be satiated.

After speaking with several friends who have chosen an expat lifestyle, I realized that I was not unique in feeling this way. One friend, who has lived in Europe most of her adult life, shared how pulled she felt to the land where we grew up. She described it as a build up of tension. As she spoke, I watched her lips move and pictured the strings of a guitar being plucked. I saw them vibrating as a faceless person stroked them. The tone of the strings, pulled so very tight from end to end, emanated a resonating call to come home.

I have tried to explain this feeling to people who have not lived overseas. They often respond by asking, “Don't you like living in the UK?” In response, I respectfully press my lips together and give a quick shake of my head. “It doesn't have to do with liking or disliking my life in the UK. It has to do with the deep need to return to where you belong.”

As the plane pressed further into the atmosphere and a surly flight attedant served me a cup overfilled with orange juice, I felt the tension release from my neck. The ice cubes hit the front of my teeth and the bits of orange pulp stuck to my lips. I pondered why I so badly needed to return to Ohio. I needed to ground my feet in the place I knew myself best.

With every massive life change comes a shift in identity. Marrying my husband was one experience that altered how I related to the world. My life in Bristol and Portishead was about being a married woman. Conversely, my life in Ohio was based upon my identification with being a child. The American Midwest provided nourishment and safety. I yearned to be with the people who had known me for all of my life. It felt natural to go there to “fill up.”

The flight attendant placed a package of stale pretzels on my tray. I felt a ripple of anxiety course through my abdomen. I ran my fingers nervously over the shiny red and blue foil packet. “What if I don't want to come back to my new home,” I thought. Unable to draw a full breath, I looked to my right at my husband who was engrossed in his new book. He briefly glanced at me and noticed the unsettled look on my face. “You alright?” he asked as he touched my shoulder. “Yeah. Just fine,” I responded.

I soothed myself with thoughts, not of my departure from the US to the UK, but rather what we would be doing once we arrived. The corners of my mouth curled upwards as I thought about coffee dates, shopping, and time with my mother. I slid into the back of my seat and anticipated breakfast at my favorite restaurant, watching American movies for half the price, and driving on the other side of the road.

Within a few hours, our plane touched down in New York, my stomach danced again. My husband and I carried out a ritual that we began early in our relationship when we travel internationally. Whoever is not in their home country rushes to get through customs. “Bye. Go. Go. Go, ” I muttered as he gave me a quick peck on the lips. “See you on the other side,” I whispered. “Yeah,” he said as we locked glances and smirked. A moment later, I watched his silhouette getting smaller and more faint as he sprinted down the jet bridge. Our return to the US together for the first time in over a year had finally begun.

Please keep an eye out for future posts that will share more of my experiences and perceptions of returning home.

And....I am Back

2011-01-24T15:04:00.000Z

It is early morning here, and as I sit writing, I can hear the ticking of my husband's old clock. The rhythmic pattern comforts me as I gather the my thoughts to share with you. My hands caress the warm mug of coffee sitting before me, and I am aware that much time has passed since I last touched in with all of you.

While passing my drivers test was a high priority (and frankly, I am amazed that I did it), it seems so long ago. Since then, I traveled to the US for the holidays. We spent three glorious weeks with friends and family in Ohio. On December 31st, while you were celebrating the New Year, we were traveling from New York to London. Upon our return, life became quite busy and we were swept up in what I call “the daily mish mash” of life. I was pleased to settle back into a familiar routine of spin classes, coffee dates with girlfriends and tending to the house. Despite being horribly jet lagged, I was comforted by the desire to return to our life here.

As January fades away and February can be seen on the horizon, I feel eager and ready to write again. Life isn't quiet right now. I am doing some freelance writing and a bit of work for the National Health Service. In addition, I continue to volunteer with a non-profit in Bristol. We also have decided to place our house back on the market as my husband and I are ready to make some changes. However, despite the contracting and expanding activities of our lives, I promise to make time to come back here to share with you. My perceptions of this country are different now that a year has passed. Time has begun to give me the gift of perspective. I am eager earmark a bit of time each week so that we can “chat.”

So, please do continue to look out for my posts. I am looking forward to connecting again......

Acing the UK Practical Driving Test: Mission Accomplished!!!

2010-11-20T09:30:00.001Z

Nine months ago, I couldn't imagine getting in the drivers seat and often refused the opportunity to drive. With some nudging, I drove for short distances. Seven months ago, I couldn't drive on the left side of the street without feeling physically ill. Nonetheless, I drove despite feeling nauseous. Five months ago, I almost wrecked our new car on a roundabout the first time I ventured out alone. I pulled over to the side of the road, took some deep breaths, and went around that roundabout several more times....just to get it right. Within the last month, I drove long distances along crooked and narrow roads. I endlessly practiced parallel parking, turning in the road, backing around corners and parking spots till late into the evening in the grocery store parking lot.

This week, I passed my practical driving test! I am now fully licensed to drive in the UK! At times, preparing for this test was more daunting than studying for my Master's degree. On the day of the test, I told the driving examiner how to check the oil levels and tire pressures in the car and performed a three-point turn in the road. I even drove through town for 30 minutes with the examiner without killing myself (or anyone else) on a roundabout.

This accomplishment was a global effort. I am so grateful for the support of my friends and family in the US and England. From reviewing the highway code to pep talks on Skype, I couldn't have done it without you. Thank you.....

Happy Anniversary...to Us!

2010-11-07T21:53:00.001Z

Stuart and I are celebrating our first year of marriage. Over the last year, I have reflected upon an image that was depicted in a part of our wedding ceremony. I would like to share it with all of you.

"In Washington State Park, two trees grow next to each other which, in itself, is not particularly noteworthy. Unusual, however, is how they grow upward. Both begin and grow up separately, rooted in a rock bed. The trunks, however, begin to spiral around each other as if attracted by an invisible need for coupling. They twist near each other and circle into a shared distinction day by day, week by week, and year by year. The two compensate and complete one another without loosing individuality. Branches extend from each, but at the greater heights, discerning to which the branches belong is of lesser importance. These two trees model a striving for wholeness. Artists, poets, mystics, lovers, story tellers, and just plain onlookers marvel at the example and come to acquire the image for themselves of such possibility that they yearn for in their own lives.

If it is true that the greatest human desire is the desire for wholeness, then the two of you will give credence to a universal dream, to awaken from the bed rock of slumber, spiral upwards and couple together with intangible grace" (Richard Hardy, Bok Tower Gardens, Lake Wales Florida, USA, November 8, 2009).

Guy Fawkes Night

2010-11-06T21:52:00.000Z

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent
To blow up the King and Parli'ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;
By God's providence [or By God's mercy] he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Hulloa boys, Hulloa boys, let the bells ring.
Hulloa boys, hulloa boys, God save the King!

--Traditional English Rhyme

As I write this blog entry, the rain is pelting on the windows and the television is turned down so low I can barely hear the murmuring of the anchorwoman on the BBC. The house is quiet and my husband is away. A familiar feeling sweeps over me. I have a sensation of belonging to this place, but not understanding it. I feel like an outsider this evening. No, I don't feel alienated. Rather, I feel as if I am embarking blindly on an adventure. The path before me has momentarily been obscured and (with curiosity) I take a step.

I hear the hissing and screeching of fireworks originating from the park in front of our house. Suddenly, a spray of green reflects against the pale white window sill. “Seriously, for a culture so concerned with health and safety, I am astonished that people are willing to set off fireworks,” I think to myself. Distracted, I look back to the television. The BBC weather woman waves her hands around the map of United Kingdom and proclaims, “This evening will be a wet one for all of your Bonfire celebrations.”

Last Tuesday night, as our car hugged the twisty road, we passed a pub where fireworks were being set off. “Hey, why are they letting off fireworks?” I looked over at my husband to see the red sparks of the pyrotechnics reflected in his glasses. With a coy smile he responded, “Remember, remember the Fifth of November, The Gunpowder Treason and Plot, I know of no reason, Why the Gunpowder Treason, Should ever be forgot.” “I don't get it,” I said. “You should look it up. Guy Fawkes was this guy who tried to blow up Parliament, ” he recommended.

It has taken me all week to understand that Guy Fawkes and Bonfire Night is the reason that our supermarket was selling fireworks. I have felt completely out of the loop. It wasn't that people weren't telling about this celebration. Even the people who read my blog were telling me about it. I just hadn't experienced it. I wasn't even anticipating it. I spoke to my brother-in-law this week and he cautioned me to not get excited about the fireworks. He was worried that I would be disappointed. The last time I saw fireworks was during a recent visit to Disney World in Orlando. “They just aren't as good," he joked. “You might just want to stay home and watch them from your window. You will stay warmer and drier.”

Living in a new place is both exciting and daunting. I love learning about England and I am overwhelmed by the new experiences. The seasons and celebrations, while beautiful, are unfamiliar to me. I feel unsettled; I cannot recognize their cadence. Now, I understand why Halloween hasn't been celebrated here. While we in the US have been celebrating Halloween, the English have been gathering for Bonfile Night. I get it now. Next year, it will be different. Perhaps, I will attend a bonfire celebration. Next year, it will be familiar to me and I will not grapple with its significance. I doubt I will even remember how unsettled I felt when I first learned about it. “Bonfire Night,” I will whisper. “Yeah, I know about that.”

The Beauty of Different

2010-11-02T10:41:00.000Z

A new world opened to me when I started blogging. In an instant, I was connected to communities of creative souls. Karen Walrond, a photographer and writer, has provided me with comfort and inspiration. I remember the first time I stumbled upon her blog. I had only been in England for several months; I was feeling hollow and drained from homesickness. My mood and spirits brightened as I gazed upon her vivid photographs and read her insightful blog entries.

Karen has an amazing new book out called, “The Beauty of Different.” I wanted to share it with you. “The Beauty of Different” is available from Bright Sky Press and Amazon

Halloween in England: Frightfully Understated

2010-10-31T16:50:00.001Z

http://www.free-images.org.uk/

Late last night, I sat in my living room and logged onto Facebook. Nearly all of the entries pertained to Halloween. A Facebook friend posted pictures of her children marching in the school Halloween Parade. The annual event, held at Colonial Hills Elementary School in Worthington, Ohio, USA, has been held for generations. I eagerly clicked through the pictures as memories rushed back to me. In the weeks prior to the parade, my mother and I had made my costume by hand. She dutifully took the afternoon off from work the day of the event to help me get dressed for the festivities. I proudly skipped through the neighborhood streets with scores of other children as our parents stood on the curb to gawk. I can remember being a witch, a pink bride, a pink princess, a pink ghost (are you seeing a theme here?), and a cat. My doll babies even participated with matching costumes.

As an adult in Washington, DC, I still managed to celebrate Halloween. Halloween week was marked by the High-Heeled Run in the neighbourhood of Dupont Circle. Men dressed up as women and ran several city blocks in high heels. For many years, my friends and I braved chilly temperatures, rain, and throngs of people to watch the spectacle.

I always enjoyed going to work on October 31st. The metro cars were packed with sexy witches, cats, and ghouls at 9 AM as strangers glanced about the cars and passed smiles and chuckles back and forth. I wished I had enough nerve to dress up and sit through a work day dressed as Tina Turner or Brittany Spears. The day after, many people would likely sit slumped in their seats, groggily reading the newspaper.

Now, I find myself disappointed with the state of Halloween celebrations in the UK. The first realization that this holiday was going to be different came when I went looking for caramel apples last weekend. As I approached the produce aisles, I began to imagine tasting the sweet buttery caramel that would coat a tangy apple. I became excited when I saw them sitting on the top shelf. I stretched up above my head and grabbed the wooden stick only to find that the apple was covered in toffee. I tried again and pulled another apple from the bin. This one was covered in chocolate. “Oh, no.” I muttered. “This will not do.” From Bristol to Cornwall, I searched for my seasonal treats with no success.

Today, there was supposed to be an event in the town where we live. Admittedly, it was for children. They were going to have walks lit with lanterns through the woods, ghost stories, and music. I intended to convince my husband to attend. I was so excited!! “Finally,” I thought. “A proper Halloween.” I was crushed when I read in the local paper that the event had been cancelled due to large crowds and concerns about what is called “antisocial behavior” which includes unruly teenagers throwing eggs, flour, etc. Nonetheless, my heart sank.

I was further devastated when I tried to carve the pumpkin that I grew. As my husband cut into the top, we found that the flesh had rotted, lacked seeds, and was filled with mold. I pouted as my husband wrapped the carcass of my little pumpkin in newspaper and then tossed it into the food waste bin.

Next year, Halloween will be different. Perhaps, the hardest part of living in a new place is the shock of realizing some of the differences. Now, I know. Next year, I will figure out how to make my own candy apples. As for the pumpkin, I will plant the seeds and start again. With a little luck, the next one will turn out better. We might even have our own little party!

Passing the Test!

2010-10-27T15:13:00.003+01:00

At 6:45 AM, I slid into the passenger seat of our car. I looked at my husband and tried to smile as I arched my left arm behind me to shut the door. “All right?” he asked. “Yeah, I guess so,” I muttered. The sky, still darkened, made me feel even more tired. I wanted to be curled up under the warmth of our duvet. As we drove slowly down the street, I began to feel my stomach grumble and churn. “It feels just like grad school,” I thought. Memories of sleepless nights prior to exams flooded my mind. I had forgotton about consuming unhealthy amounts of Coca Cola, chewed pencils, and no make-up the morning of the test. Ah, yes it was all coming back to me.

We drove for the next twenty minutes in silence. Well, almost. Except when my husband quizzed me on a random street sign. I nearly had a pre-test meltdown. “Look, what does that sign mean?” he asked. I stared at the blue circle with a red “X” through it. The vibe of the car quickly became frenetic and dramatic. “I dunno, don't ask me. I will forget it all. I am really nervous,” I squeaked. Concerned, he glanced sideways at me while keeping his head turned toward the road.

In reality, I know more about the Highway Code in England than most English people. The days prior to the test were spent reading, making flashcards, and taking pre-tests. Speed limits, toucan, pelican, and zebra crossings (Really? How complex do we need to make this?) I think I know most of it. However, the hours before a test for me are precarious. Just a little too much test anxiety and my mind can go blank.

As we pulled up to the concrete high rise building, I looked to my right and saw the reflection of our car in the window. I recognized the woman in the passenger seat. “Oh, not so good,” I thought. Her face flushed, her forehead scrunched, and her hair pulled tightly back, she looked worried and frightened. I saw the muscles in her neck contract as she took a hard swallow. She glanced at the driver's side of the car and then stared back at me. This time, her brow was smooth, her jaw set, and her gaze direct and strong. I recognized this “game face” look.

As I shut the car door and entered the lobby of the building, my heart raced. “What if I fail,” I ruminated. “What if you don't,” I whispered to myself. After nearly an hour testing, I was ushered into a waiting room. A round little man with rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes called my name. As I approached him, he handed me a sheet of paper. His voice grew louder and stronger as he said, “Sabrina, this is your test score.” Confused, I looked down at the paper but didn't have time to read all of the words. “What do you mean,” I asked. His voice quieted and he said, “Here is your test result.” I looked down to see his index finger under the word “passed.” I smiled and said, “Can I go now?” He chuckled, “You are a free woman.” “You have no idea,” I responded.

Buddhas, Bulls, and BMW's Oh My!!!

2010-09-27T08:34:00.000+01:00

Some stories are best shown in pictures. This weekend, we went with my brother and sister-in-law to Wells. One of my favorite places, Wells is a bustling cathedral city about 45 minutes from our home. It was determined during lunch that we should visit a reclamation yard. I had no idea what we would be experiencing. “What is it,” I inquired. My brother-in-law smiled deeply and responded by saying, “It it amazing. It is like walking through history.”

Less than 20 minutes later we pulled into a huge lot with several shed-like buildings that looked at if they were going to fall down. We spent nearly an hour wandering around this odd little place. As my my husband and I criss-crossed paths, we laughed and shook our heads at the “treasures.” I have to admit that I did get a sense of history in this odd place. See for yourself.....

I love all of these sculptures sitting together.....

Sabrina riding a bull...

Need a kitchen sink?

Pretty amazing isn't it? This wasn't a part of the reclamation yard.
Someone owns it and drives it!!

I tried to convince my husband that this tank would be the perfect
addition to our garden.....

Getting to Know You

2010-09-24T16:04:00.000+01:00

As I stepped through the doorway of the dimly lit stone cottage, I felt my stomach flip-flop. I had been invited to join a bookgroup with women that I met through the Women's Institute. Before we get too far into this story, let me clearly state that I needed to join another book group like I needed a hole in my head. Seriously. I already belong to one reading group and I struggle to finish the books. The days leading to a book group meeting are a bit tense. My husband threatens to remove all magazines and books from my bedside table until I finish the book at hand. Frequently, he finds me curled up on the couch speed reading. No, really, it just isn't pretty.

At a recent Women's Institute meeting, I asked about the formation of a new book group. I don't know what overcame me. Before I knew it, I was introduced to a woman who was willing to pick me up and take me to the next meeting. I couldn't resist. They were so kind. So warm and so inviting. As we finished discussing the logistics of the upcoming evening, an acquaintance put her hand my shoulder and said, “You really must come Sabrina. This will help you feel more settled here. Come and get to know us.” How could I say, “no” to that? She was right.

I felt a tug and pull. I still hate being the new one. Should I admit right here on the internet that I hate going to places where I don't know anyone? I can talk to ANYBODY. That doesn't mean I like it. Groups of people leave me feeling overwhelmed. Despite the fact that I look at ease and confident, I am often nervous. Let's be clear. These feelings don't stop me from going out and meeting people. They just make things more difficult.

I fumbled with the coins in my pockets as I walked down the narrow corridor to the living room. As I entered the room, I bit the inside of my cheek. These women sounded different. I felt a moment of panic. I struggled to understand some of their words and phrases. I became agitated. The reality of being 3000 miles from familiarity slammed into me. I glanced at the rosy floral curtains that clung to the window frame and wondered if I could relax into enjoying this evening.

What transpired over the next two hours was a gift. These women made every kind attempt to include me. As I had not read the book, they made certain I understood the plot line so that I could follow their brief discussion. I use the word brief because the rest of the evening was a light hearted mosaic of sharing with each other. The conversation became fluid and animated as we talked about educational pursuits, travel, literature, and history. Sounds like a lot to fit into an evening? Yeah, it was. At the end, I said my goodbyes and promised I would be back for the next meeting. As I exited the cottage gardens, I gingerly closed the wood gate behind me. I ran my fingers over the grain of the worn wood and took a deep breath. I felt so grateful.

The Little Driver That Could

2010-08-16T16:43:00.001+01:00

As we walked out of our front door, I looked at the car sitting in the driveway. “What if I crack our new car up” I said to a friend. She smiled and gently nodded. “Just remember, it costs the same to fix an old car as it does to fix a new car. You have got to do it.” I looked at her, shook my head, and sighed. I hated driving here. Every time I got into the car I felt stressed. No. Not stressed. I felt as if I needed to throw up.

My husband left earlier last week on a business trip. As soon as the cab door to the taxi slammed shut, an awkward silence filled the house. I peered outside our living room window. I bit the knuckle of my left index finger as I stared down at the roof of our car. For two weeks I could be granted complete freedom if I would just get up the nerve to get in the driver’s seat. “It could be like old times,” I thought. “I could go the mall, take a yoga class at a nearby studio, and explore some sights a bit further from our house.” My teeth clenched the outside of my knuckle. “I have to do it,” I muttered to myself. I had a meeting early in the afternoon and I decided that I would drive there. No bus. No walking.

Not driving has been one of the hardest parts of this move. I hate asking for help and I often feel embarrassed when I need to ask my new friends and family for a “lift.” I am incredibly independent and I really struggle with needing to rely upon others for transportation. It reminded me of being a child and asking my mother to pick me up from school or a friend’s house. Even then, I quickly gained independence by having my own bike. I have come and gone as I pleased much of my life.

Later that morning, as I slid into the drivers seat, I remembered one of my favorite childhood books. I imagined the tattered cover of The Little Engine That Could. I giggled to myself as I thought about the little train that pushed up the side of the mountain chanting, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.“ As I pulled out of the driveway, my heart began to race. “Breathe Sabrina, you have got to do this,” I thought. I wasn’t going to let myself off of the hook. No, I wasn’t going to just drive around the block I was driving to the next town.

The narrow streets in our neighborhood were littered with cars on either side of the road, requiring constant negotiation with other drivers to get through. I moaned amid the soft chatter of the radio as a car came toward me and then pulled to the right side of the road granting me permission to get through. I heard my husband’s voice in my head, “Always remember to wave. It is considered impolite if you don’t.” I arched the muscles in my hand while still keeping my palm on the steering wheel to signal my appreciation to the other driver.

As I turned right (from the left hand lane, mind you) I felt the lump in my throat soften. The car hummed up the two lane coastal road and I gazed out over the shimmering light reflecting upon the estuary. My grip loosened upon the steering wheel allowing just a bit more blood to flow into my fingers. The next twenty five minutes were spent driving along the little narrow streets and roundabouts. After parallel parking the car (I was so proud), I nearly skipped into the building where my meeting was to be held. Breathless, I walked up to receptionist with a smug grin. “Who are you here to see,” she asked. I wanted to ask her if she knew about the story of the Little Engine That Could. I wondered if she knew about the part of the book when the little blue engine is speeding down the mountain and he is chugging the words, “I know I can, I know I can, I know I can.”

EXTRAordinary Moments

2010-08-03T10:25:00.000+01:00

I approached the bus terminal in Bristol feeling a bit nervous. We were there to pick up friends from DC. My friend Kris and her partner Ross were passing through at the end of travel in Europe. This visit was important for me. I was beginning to feel parched for the familiarity of my life in DC. As I pulled open the heavy glass door to the building, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Crinkles in the space above my eyebrows appeared as I pressed my lips together. Yes, I was a little nervous. My mother has mentioned many times that I shouldn't squish my forehead. According to her “it will give you wrinkles.” I have always wondered if this was true and “just in case” I smiled at the stressed out looking woman in the glass door. “There,” I thought. “At least I'll have wrinkles that will smile.

As I continued down the terminal, I saw her and my steps quickened. Kris greeted me in the manner in which she has always done....with loud squeals and squeaks. “Hi Honey, I missed you.” Her voice fluctuated in tone and decibel. Stepping into an embrace, we did that “hug dance” that close friends can do so well; the one where you both shift your hips and bend your knees at the same time. Simultaneously, we stepped away from each other while still holding our arms to take a look. I leaned just a little closer and whispered in her ear, “English people don't generally greet each other this way.” We both giggled as we sauntered in step to exit the terminal with our arms around each other.

Over the next 24 hours, we explored a bit of both Bristol and London amid constant chatter. Our attention wasn't focused upon showing them the sights of Bristol, and none of us seemed overly interested in exploring London. For me, our conversations were the focus and the sightseeing was ancillary. For example, the conversation went like this: "Hey, what happened to that girl in grad school--you remember you traveled with in Nigeria? Oh Kris, look! We are going over the Clifton Suspension Bridge." Ross added to the conversation by injecting valuable facts and information nearly everywhere we found ourselves. We paused for a moment and made a few comments. The conversation always circled back to the previous topic. I began again by saying, "So, Kris, what happened to her? The girl? Didn't she get married?"

Our time in London was similar. After visiting with friends and getting settled in our hotel rooms, we met halfway on the Millennium Bridge over the Thames. After a few ceremonial pictures and several efforts to avoid buying wilted roses from a man who couldn't seem to keep his pants from falling down below his rear end, we decided that it was time for ice cream and tea in the park.

This visit wasn’t packed full of things to do and see. Rather, it was a time to connect and relax. As I reflect upon the times I have met friends in different parts of the world, I value the moments that are a little more ordinary. Yet, they weren’t ordinary at all. As Kris and I walked arm and arm just a few steps ahead of our partners, I gazed at St. Paul's Cathedral and thought, “Are we really in London?" These are the moments that create a mosaic of our past. Indeed, there will be a time when we will meet again in another location and remember our time together....with sweetness.

After the ice cream treats

Ahh, it never tasted so good!

Giving instructions on how to take the picture.....

Competition

2010-06-24T10:23:00.002+01:00

Last weekend, I confidently sauntered through our kitchen and announced to my husband that he had some competition. His steely eyes peered over the edge of the newspaper he was reading. He moved his left hand to caress the blue mug of tea that sat in front of him. “Oh,” he said. “Yes, I love our rose bushes almost as much as I love you,” I exclaimed. “Mmmmm,” he responded and went back to reading. As I headed back to the garden I peered over my shoulder. Glancing from his paper yet once again, I could see the corners of his lips move in an upward direction. “Have fun,” he replied.

Here are some of the contenders:

I Don't Know

2010-06-20T08:33:00.001+01:00

I sit in our living room. A cup of jasmine tea has been made and a candle is lit. The only sound in the house is of the staccato tapping on my keyboard and the sound of the washing machine bullying a load of dark clothing with cold water. My mind wanders back to a conversation with a friend. As we sipped our frappachino she softly looked at me and said, “You seem more confident now. It looks as if things are going in the right direction.” Surprised, I looked up. “Yes, I think so,” I said. “These things take time,” I tried to respond with ease.

Inside I winced. “I guess I did reveal a lot to her” I thought. Our conversation caused me to realize that she is one of the few people to whom I have revealed my vulnerability. Over the last several months, there has been a lot of it. I hate not looking good. I have known for a long time that I have a huge investment in appearing competent. I have always been this way. I was startled by her comment because I began to understand that I opened the door for her to see me as I was in the moment. Often, it just wasn’t that pretty. Or was it? I am starting to wonder if there wasn’t a peculiar grace in revealing oneself un-edited.

I then began to consider a phrase that I detest. “I don’t know” is a phrase that makes me uncomfortable. As I write the words, I feel a grip take hold on my stomach. Over the last months there are so many things that I haven’t known how to do. Here is just a sampling: 1) I didn’t know how to drive on the opposite side of the road. 2) I didn’t know my way around the centre of Bristol. 3) I didn’t know how to use our stove. 4) I didn’t know how to put the duvet cover on the duvet. 5) I didn’t know how to find a job here. Those were small in comparison to the next few…..6) I didn’t know how to be married. 7) I didn’t know how to define myself in this new place. The list could continue endlessly. One could begin to understand why I began to lack confidence. Frankly, I was brought to my knees and overwhelmed.

In each of these situations, I hated not knowing. Let me not misrepresent the current situation. I certainly don’t have all of those items figured out. I recently watched a neighbors child begin to tantrum while he was strapped in his stroller. He arched his back as his petite fingers wrapped around his knuckles forming miniature fists. He scrunched the muscles in his face and started to screech with frustration. I could tell he was irritated by being confined to his seat. “I know,” I thought. “Me too.”

I don’t think that mastering the “I don’t know’s” is necessary or even feasible. Some of them involve ongoing lessons and growth (like the whole marriage thing, for example). What I am learning is how to become more comfortable with NOT knowing. The reality is, for the rest of my life, I won’t know stuff. There will be a lot of time when I don’t look good. I am so grateful that I am certain there will be times when I look like a rockstar.

The English have a saying. I can’t remember it completely. It is something about “ticking the box.” From growing vegetables to job hunting, I am learning how to do those things. “Check!” Progress is being made.

Reflections on the 21.5.800 Challenge

2010-06-17T08:04:00.001+01:00

"What does it feel like to create? You know when you’re creating, and not merely working at writing or sculpting or singing, when all sense of self and time disappears. All creators speak, in one way or another, of being “dictated to.”

-- Robert Burdette Sweet

Note: Occasionally, over the next 2 ½ weeks, I will be sharing my thoughts on the 21.5.800 Challenge. In an effort to keep my integrity to the content of this blog, I will be sharing my reflections in the context of living abroad.

I have been doing so much writing that my hands have begun to tire. As I rub the insides of my palms and the tops of my wrists, a wave of contentment rushes through me. Other participants in the 21.5.800 Challenge have written about their aches or pains with the yoga portion. My body has reacted to the writing. I muse on this and wonder if our bodies are expressing where we need to focus our attention. For some, the call comes from body and the act of movement. For others, we grapple with expressing ourselves with words. This latter applies to me as this blog entry has taken several days to complete.

Since I moved here, I have been thinking a great deal about creativity. The first moments after I was able to drowsily shake off my jetlag, I started to” re-create” myself. I have noticed that movement has become essential in the development process. Tension and rigidity only seem to impose a barrier to the manifestation of the new. Moving to a new country forces me to become flexible in every single way that I live my life. In order to keep my body supple, I began practicing yoga more regularly. When I get on the yoga mat, I am grateful to feel where there is tension or weakness and where there is strength.

I love the strength that yoga instills in my body and my mind. The stability I gain in my emotions gives way to a prolonged sense of timelessness during my practice….and a creative process that I have yet to fully understand unfolds. What I have become aware of is that when I practice, I am created anew. Negativity, fear, and anxiety are replaced with a stillness the yields a sense of trust and wholeness.

Yoga is the one activity where I can trust myself completely. “The Mat” is the only place thus far in my life where I feel absolutely beautiful. There was a time when I hated certain parts of my body. It was through learning how the muscles gripped my bones that I gained respect for my quadriceps. I began to appreciate those flabby triceps when they supported me in a head stand. I have stretched my body in ways that I never thought were possible. However, this wasn’t the point. It was the metaphor. As I tried new poses, I gained the confidence and trust in myself that I would be able to complete them. I continue to be amazed with the relationship that is being formed between my body and my mind.

The trust, confidence, and self respect that come from being on the mat are infectious. There is a mirror in the studio where I take yoga classes. As the class comes to a close, I dance my fingers around the sticky mat to roll it up. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face is flushed and my hair is disheveled. As the other students are gathering their belongings to leave, chatter fills the room. The sound of the words they make and the cadence of their sentences still sound strange to me. I lean forward on my hands and peer into my own eyes in the mirror. “Yup, you look stunning,” I say to her in the mirror. We stare in admiration at each other for just a moment. I take a breath and as I release it I blow away several stray strands of hair on my forehead. I glance back at her. We just smile at each other.

Yoga & Writing: The Perfect Pair!

2010-06-13T17:15:00.001+01:00

Last night, I came across an online community project called the 21.5.800 Challenge http://binduwiles.com/. Created by Bindu Wiles, who is a writer, a Buddhist, and a creativity coach, the 21.5.800 Challenge encourages participants for 21 days, to do yoga 5 days a week and write 800 words a day! I decided to “sleep on it” and decide in the morning if I could commit. As soon as I opened my eyes this morning, I knew I wanted to participate. I woke up feeling focused and excited. I couldn’t wait to get out of bed and write. Currently, there are 486 people participating.

Here are the details of the 21.5.800 Challenge:

THE WRITING: The writing can be ANYTHING. Memoir, blogs, business plans, essays, fiction, free-writing, letters,……..ANYTHING. The point is to get writing again daily and to have the boundaries and challenge of a daily word count to reach.

THE YOGA: There are several options for the yoga portion of the Challenge. The options include: 1. Go to a yoga class in your neighborhood. 2. Do a yoga dvd at home. 3. Take a 20-40 minute savasana (for who are not into yoga, savasana is a deep relaxation pose).

Several of my friends have participated in similar challenges and I have been intrigued at the prospect of connecting with other writers and yogis “virtually.” Yoga and writing are two things that I LOVE and I am always looking for ways to deepen my commitment to them. I am still building a community here in the UK and the majority of my yoga and writing are done alone. I have been yearning to regularly share my experiences with like minded people and create a sense of community despite living abroad. Finally, I have an opportunity to do this!

Bindu details a couple of reasons why people would want to participate. My favorites include:

1. Committing to a short-term project that is challenging and has quotas brings results. In other words, imagine all the writing you will have done in 21 days: 800 x 21= 16,800 words. 16,800 words is roughly 67 pages.

2. The power of community is powerful. With other people online doing the project and blogging about their process, you know that when you sit down to write or do yoga, many other people are doing the same thing and that’s a motivator.

3. Writing means sitting, and sitting means stiffness. Move a muscle, move a thought. Or for the people who are going to opt into savasana; still the body, still the mind. Either way, putting more movement or more stillness into your life is always a win.

Like so many of the experiences in my life, I can’t wait to see where this will take me! I will keep you posted!!!

What Changes and What Remains

2010-06-10T03:45:00.002+01:00

I mentioned in previous posts that we hosted friends and family last month. One of our visitors was a dear friend with whom I studied in graduate school. I was looking forward to our visit. I longed for some familiarity and friendship. I have to admit, I was also really nervous about her arrival. I had no idea how she would experience this new life of mine. Our past was based upon my single life. Single Sabrina. We built our friendship through midnight sessions at the library, surfing online through Eharmony and Match for potential mates, and occasional visits to bars (when she could drag me out). I wondered how she would feel being with me in such a new space. It felt like there were so many new parts of myself to introduce to her. I was worried about how she would receive me.

I was pondering all of this after we picked her up. Deeply immersed in my thoughts, I was startled when I looked out the window and saw a massive cow running along side of our car. “Umm, is this normal?” I asked my husband. “No, not really that I am aware of,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. (I love these responses. My husband can use such few words. While he responds in short and concise sentences, I feel the need to deliver a discourse regarding what the cow is thinking and theories about how she might have gotten out of her field.)

I instantly started to panic. I was terrified that this lumbering beast would be hit by a car…..or a truck. I was really worried that I was about to watch hamburger in the making. Frankly, I couldn't deal with the stress of this. My motherly instinct kicked in and I immediately started to take tally of all of the dangers. A huge truck in front of us, our car, the road, and oncoming traffic, a ditch. Meanwhile the cow attempted to heave her huge body across a low lying hedge with no success. She freaked out once again and lurched toward the road. I gasped as the long line of cars began to slow. My eyes were drawn from her as I saw the blinking hazard lights from the surrounding cars. I clenched the handle of the car door. She craned her thick brown neck towards us and made eye contact. I don’t know which one of us was more frightened.

My friend was sitting quietly in the backseat. I arched and twisted my torso around to look back at her when I heard the back window roll down. “It’s ok puppy. Go home. It will be all right, ” she yelled to the cow. Two worlds collided and I had no words to describe my confusion. She has used this tone of voice with me many times over the years. It has invariably been genuine and lighthearted and meant to reassure. I blinked quickly as I began to remember the last time I heard her talk this way. We were dining in our favorite Chinese restaurant in Washington, DC. I was dissolving the mascara from my eyelashes as I cried about missing my then fiancée who was living in England.

I tried to silence the giggle that was beginning to erupt from my throat. Oh yes, I needed this time with her. I had missed her quirky and kind perspectives. I looked over at my husband and wondered how he would fare with such an outburst. I noticed the corners of his mouth slightly curl as he raised his right eyebrow. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

There are some things, despite the changes in our lives that remain the same. I can always count on my friend to lighten me up a bit. Some familiarity and laughter was just what I needed. In our friendship, I am often the one that has been anxious, cautious, and serious. “Hey Bri,” she used to say. “I am the one that will keep you fun.” As she rolled up the car window and leaned back in her seat, I realized that despite the changes in our lives and the miles between us, the core of our friendship remains the same. No matter what happened that weekend, I knew it would be all right. I knew we would accept each other no matter the circumstances of our lives. I began to relax and pressed my palms into the seat beneath me. Yes, this was going to be a good weekend.

Watching My Country From a Distant Shore

2010-06-05T18:42:00.001+01:00

I have rituals that keep me sane. As I become more comfortable here, they are falling away like long distance runners in a hundred degree summer heat. I used to comb through the nearly 20 emails that I received from my neighborhood list-serve back in Washington. Everyday I would read about who was selling items or which road was being closed due to diplomatic events. Recently, I learned about a neighborhood cat being killed and left in a dumpster. I wasted an entire evening being distraught. My mother has a phrase, “Unnecessary suffering is optional.” I couldn’t have agreed more. The next morning I unsubscribed.

There is one daily ritual that remains. Each morning while drinking my coffee, I visit the Washington Post website. It is here that I learn about what is happening in the States. I can also easily access the latest political gossip. I never realized that I was addicted to learning about where the Obamas had dinner for their wedding anniversary or the asking price on the house owned by the Secretary of State.

One might ask why I didn’t transfer this almost voyeuristic tendency to follow the lives of political officials here in the UK. I will admit I tried. I tried to focus in on Gordon and Sarah Brown. When my husband and I watched the television coverage of the recent election, he didn’t seem interested in my questions about Nick Clegg’s wife or what she what she was wearing. Sadly, in my spare time, I even did some research on them. Honestly, it wasn’t the same. I didn’t have the history with them that I had with their counterparts in the US. So, I gave up (at least for now). This perhaps, explains why I read the Washington Post website first and then the BBC.

What I can say is that when I am clicking through the numerous pages on the Washington Post website, an image becomes superimposed in my mind. I see myself standing on the coast with green rounded hills sloping toward the sea. I stand tall with my long brown hair falling around my shoulders as I gaze to the West. My lips are tightly pressed together and my brow is tense. I think, “What will they do next? What is happening over there today?” My clenched fists rest inside the pockets of my black rain coat.

It is an odd sensation to watch your own country from far away. I love America. I didn’t know how loyal I was until I left. There have been times when I watched with great concern and disbelief. From the health care debates to the oil spill in the Gulf, I often feel cold shivers run through my spinal column. There were also times when I experienced a quickening gratitude to the place I call home. It has produced some of the people I admire most. I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face when I read the obituaries for civil rights leader Dorothy Height or singer Lena Horne. I took some extra time those mornings to learn more about their contributions. “Look at all she did,” I whispered in admiration.

I vacillate between feeling compassionate and impatient when I think about the US. Some mornings my impatience with myself becomes projected outward. I see her again on the shore looking to Washington. She sighs in frustration as the mist becomes heavy. Her eyes shift to the sky and her foot taps nervously into the wet soil. “We can do better….much better.” On a good morning, I pluck fresh blueberries from my cereal bowl and playfully pop them into my mouth. I smirk at Barack Obama and his choice of a dinner locations. I mutter softly, “Well Michelle, you looked pretty darn cute. Well done. ” As I push my chair from the kitchen table, not only am I impressed by my spontaneous use of the English phrase, “Well done,” I am able to trust that those who run both countries are doing everything they can during this tenuous time. Perhaps there is an opportunity for growth and positive change in every situation.

Remembering May

2010-06-04T17:49:00.000+01:00

I can’t believe that the month of May has passed. It has been a long time since I posted. Spring arrived on our doorstep and gifted us with warmer weather and an explosion of color from the sudden appearance of emerald green grass on the rolling hills to the soft pinks of the roses that have emerged in our garden. As nature was taking her course....we were very busy!!! Thank you for hanging in with me during the silence. I will be writing about some of my experiences from last month in upcoming posts. In the meantime, here are some of the highlights:

We bought a new car and I have begun to learn how to drive….on the opposite side of the road! I think my husband is the most patient man! We should all pray for him because when I get in the drivers seat, he begins to look pale and ashen. I still don’t understand why he seems to grip the handle on the door so tightly that his knuckles look white.
We hosted friends and family for much of the month and explored some of the more beautiful places in Southwest England including Wells, the resort town of Lynmouth, and Cheddar.
I lived through my first encounter with the dentist here. For most people, this wouldn’t be a big deal. However, I have a dental phobia…..need I say more?
I began to ride my bike on the roads. I have to admit that this is even more terrifying than driving as the cars are still coming at me on a different side of the road. I seem to perceive even more danger when biking as there is less metal (and potentially airbags) around me.
I planted a small vegetable garden that has taken off! As usual, I didn’t believe that the potatoes, beans, strawberries, tomatoes, squash, chilies, herbs, and red pepper would grow! I was wrong!!! I can’t wait.
The pace of my job hunt has quickened. I am feeling more rested and acclimated and I am ready to begin working. I have been applying for positions in Bristol and London. In the meantime, I expect to begin volunteering at the National Health Service in an effort to gain more insight into how healthcare is delivered here in the UK.

And you? What gifts has Spring granted to you? Until next time.....

Frampton on Severn

2010-05-01T21:30:00.000+01:00

No big news here. We recently went to Frampton on Severn which is a little village where my husband's sailing club is located. This particular afternoon he was on rescue duty during some races. While he was out making sure people didn't drown, I wandered around. Here is a little taste of what I encountered.

I loved watching the little boats glide on the water.

This is "Scruff". Apparently her real name is "Fudge". Her life

jacket had a handle so that she could be plucked out of the water.

"Scruff" chillin' waiting to go out with the boats.

I walked down this enchanting path to the church and canal.

St. Mary the Virgin Church

Raising "Kids"

2010-04-29T13:13:00.000+01:00

Several weeks ago, when my husband was in Seattle, he sent a package to our home. I knew exactly what it was when I found that the postman had left it sitting on our trash bins near the garage (as per the instructions he was given by my husband). I couldn’t help but let out a loud and guttural, “YEA” when I plucked the kelly green plastic boxes from our recycling containers. I brought them inside and cautiously placed them in the entryway of our house. I nearly danced with excitement as I ran my fingers over the simple white letters that read, “WORMCITY.CO.UK”

Our wormery had arrived. Many of you may not be aware of a wormery. To start off so that we are all on the same page, according to the Wormcity website, “A Wormery is a plastic or wooden container that contains composting worms.” The website goes on to further define compost worms. “A compost worm differs from a normal garden worm in that it eats and lives on the decaying foods on the surface, whereas a garden worm burrows deep into the ground.” Got it?

We had been debating since my arrival about whether or not to get a wormery. At first, I just wanted a compost bin. Then, my husband recommended alternatives. I supported the idea when I learned that the worms make amazing fertiliser for our garden. This was perfect, as I am planting vegetables in containers for the first time since I was a child. We could be totally organic.

Our household has been making some serious adjustments since the arrival of what I now call, “The Kids.” First of all, I have to admit that I had a little trouble bonding with them. I had been anticipating their arrival for some time. However, once they were delivered, I just couldn’t get into them. Frankly, they really grossed me out. As I was preparing their new home, I couldn’t get over just how unattractive they really were. They came tightly sealed in a breathable white bag. Estimates from WORMCITY.CO.UK state that they sent me 400-800 of those little guys.

Cold shivers ran up my spine as I reluctantly peeled back the seal on the bag. I couldn’t help but think that for just a moment that I was living in a horror movie as I dumped them out into their new home. Their grey and pink bodies writhed in the sunlight as they hit the bottom of the bin. I thought about giving each of them names. Willy. Waldo. Wally. Willehmina. As I gave the bag one last shake, I muttered under my breath, “My life as I knew it is officially over. I am no longer a city girl.”

Up until this weekend, the worms have been living in our laundry room. They had to live in the house because the temperatures in the garden were too cool at night. I tried to participate in caring for the worms. However, they freaked me out. In an effort to be a strong and independent woman, I began taking equal responsibility for their care despite being repulsed by them.

“The Kids” have been moving through a rather critical time. When the worms are getting settled into their new environment, they tend to vacate the premises, in other words, escape. Normally, this isn‘t a problem. However, due to the fact that they were living in our laundry room…..well, you get the idea. We soon learned that the number of “escapers” decreased when we left the light on for them at night. “The Kids” don’t like a lot of light and they burrow further into a delectable assortment of rotting vegetables and dirt.

Despite a great deal of care to make them comfortable during their transition time, some did get out. My husband often retrieved them as they made their way up the clammy tiled floor of the hallway. Sadly, we did experience some losses and we pried their cold and petrified carcasses from the floor. I am sure that this is what the minister was referring to at our wedding ceremony when he mentioned building a marriage in the face of adversity. Not to mention the need for keeping a sense of humor!

As we were running out the door the other evening I shouted to my husband, “Did you check on the worms?” He replied, “No, I thought you did that.” I grabbed my purse and chided, “Gosh, I hope we do better when we decide to have kids.” To that my husband retorted, “In this country, it is illegal to lock your children in a green bin with rotten vegetables.” To that, I had no response.

　

Birthday Celebrations

2010-04-26T17:11:00.000+01:00

There will be a time when we remember this day. Perhaps, we will sit around and pass a picture book of days long gone (as we did on Saturday afternoon). Their echoes will no doubt both whisper and gnaw at us each in a different way. We may note how each looked years ago: Her hair, his sweater, and the lines upon her face. Will we notice the one who looks sad or hesitant? What will the pictures taken from today reveal to us in the future? Will we remember that we teased him over his new jeans? How much will we consider how the peanut butter cookies crumbled upon our tongues or the fluffiness of lemon cake as it bounced from the fork unto the plate?

This weekend, we celebrated the birth of my husband. Saturday and Sunday were sprinkled with family moments. A birthday tea on Saturday and an intimate lunch with just a few on Sunday. Each family does it differently. I am intrigued and fascinated by the ways in which these occasions are honored….and I remember.

As my husband stepped up to blow out the lone flame on his cake, I my saw a vision from my past on the back of my forehead. It was my sixth birthday. The basement of our house was filled with screeching little girls. Someone (probably my mother) gathered us in front of a steel bucket of ice cold water. Shiny Red Delicious apples swirled about aimlessly. I knelt down before the tub and prepared myself to grab an apple with my teeth. The image becomes even clearer now, as if I am looking at a yellowed photograph. My father appears and squats down next to me--his hand gingerly resting upon the pleats on the back of my smocked dress. As I plunged my face into the icy abyss, he pulled my long golden hair from my face so that I would not become completely drenched (or so that I would not drown). The little girls gasped and screamed yet once again. With little effort, I was able to sink my miniature teeth into the hard smooth flesh of the apple. I emerged from the water proudly clenching the fruit in my mouth. Claps and cheers were sounded. Now, I have to wonder, who created this silly time-honored game of “Bobbing for Apples“?

My husband steps away from the cake. My eyes are fixated on him. I am not present. “Do you want to cut the cake,” he asks. “Or shall I?” Embarrassed by my inattentiveness, I step forward and gently pick up the cake knife from the table. A reminder of our wedding, we last used this knife to cut our wedding cake just a few months ago. The handle with its rhinestones and intricate etching glinted in the sunlight. “Of course, I will cut the cake” I say.

The next day, we meet more family at a restaurant in Bristol. Just as we are beginning to place an order, my husband is handed a bag from Crew, which is one of his favorite shops. My stomach flutters in excitement as if this gift is for me. I LOVE Crew. Thank God he doesn’t take forever to open the bag because I couldn’t stand it. I just can’t wait when it comes to gifts. Inside was a perfectly folded and creased polo shirt. Blue and white….of course. My eyes avert to those across the table from me. Stop. “Take a mental picture,” I think. What will we remember from this part of the day? Will it be the cadence of his voice or the look in her eyes? I run my fingernails through the grain of the table. My head pivots on the base of my neck to see the look on my husband’s face. His eyes are soft and as he caresses his long delicate fingers over the neck of the shirt. He looks to them both and says, “Thank you” with a quiet regard.

These are the sweet times of our lives. Each year, the celebrations are different, but all have the same intention. They are designed to not only mark the passage of time but to honor, celebrate and love. What will we remember? I have no idea. Only time will tell.

A Little Bit of Faith

2010-04-20T14:55:00.001+01:00

Things have been pretty quiet here. There aren’t any big events to report (which is why there has been a prolonged pause between blog entries). We have been settling into a rhythm in our house. Frankly, I think it is lovely to NOT have big things to report. For once, in a very long time, I am blessed by dealing with the more mundane things of life like tending to the house, working with the garden, and going to the gym on a more regular basis.

That being said, I have had a little realization. Several weeks ago I planted some herbs and placed them on our windowsill above the kitchen sink. With each passing day, I looked with more disdain at the shiny ceramic pots. Nothing. While we were out this weekend we passed a woman selling herbs. My voice was tight with irritation and I proclaimed, “I think I need more herbs. Mine aren’t growing.” I picked up several plants and decided to “write off” the ones that I had planted.

We headed home to make Sunday brunch. The smell of salty bacon soon permeated the kitchen. My husband and I carry out a precarious ritual when we cook of nearly missing each other as we grab for plates, mixing bowls and pans. As my shoulder skimmed his arm I stopped. I arched my feet to stand on my toes so that I could see inside of the pots. Teeny tiny bits of green were pushing through the dark compost. “Ahh, look“, I said with child-like awe. “They are like little baby plants. They did sprout.” He stepped closer to peer over the sink. “Yeah, you just needed to give them time to grow.” I looked up at him and my gaze locked with his grey eyes. He pressed his lips together to form a smirk. One eyebrow raised slightly. I love it when he gives these little nonverbal cues. This time it was as if he was saying, “Someone is a little impatient.” The crack of potentially burning bacon broke our concentration.

For just a moment, I was giddy that my little herbs had grown. Then I looked into the parsley pot. Nothing. Of course the parsely didn’t grow. I had been doing my reading and learned that it doesn’t grow well from seeds. “I bet those seeds were duds anyway. Two out of three ain‘t bad, ” I whispered.

As I made my breakfast this morning I peered into the little cups again. I was relieved that the chives were actually pushing up out of the pot so that the green was showing above the edge. The basil sprouts were growing in number. I cleared my throat and muttered to myself. “What did you think they were going to do, Sabrina? Decide to roll over and die over night?“ Annoyed, I glanced at the middle parsely pot. I was certain that nothing was growing in there and I was plotting to go back to the garden center and complain that they had sold me bad seeds. To my utter amazement there were little oblong shaped leaves scattered about the soil. Some of them were so new that the dark leaves were curled back on themselves forming a loop. It had germinated as well.

My mind wandered as the dishes slipped through my soapy hand. “Never doubt nature,” I thought. My distrust that these little plants would grow resembles my attitude toward my life at times. My impatience caused me to focus my attention on what wasn’t happening rather than what could be happening. In time, these little seeds would do exactly what they were supposed to do SPROUT and THRIVE!

One of my latest projects has been looking for nourishing work. I haven’t yet found something that is the right next step for me. These little herbs have been the perfect metaphor. I realized when I become fearful I focus upon what is not present. In reality, I have been “sowing” the seeds for the perfect position. I have been readying myself through many different methods. As my husband said, “ I just need to give them time to grow.” I think I will go get a drink of water.

Two to One and Back Again

2010-03-31T08:43:00.002+01:00

My husband recently left for another two weeks in the US. I am the one who would kill to have a Starbucks Soy Latte. I am the one who lingers over the Ann Taylor websites for the spring and summer fashions wishing that I could just pop in to try on a new suit. What I wouldn’t give to drive….on a side of the road that didn’t terrify me. Instead, I stay here to continue building a life for myself with a stream of coffee dates, spinning, yoga, job hunting, networking, meditating, and writing.

When I found out that he might be leaving several weeks ago, I tried to be graceful about his departure. “Tried” is the operative word. Despite all best efforts, I seem to remember a moment when I apparently regressed to the age of four years old. I am not proud to admit that there was a tantrum. After I gathered myself and made some apologies (I seem to be offering a lot of those lately), I had a little “self talk.” I decided that I could live with being on my own for a bit of time. After all, I lived alone for the last 13 years. Moreover, being apart was something that we knew how to do. An ocean separated us for nearly nine months before I moved to England.

The first time he traveled, I was nervous and uncomfortable. I felt as if my GPS (Sat Nav) malfunctioned. Who was I going to talk with at the end of each day? Who would help me interpret my experiences in this new place? I would miss our evening conversations that occur when we are cooking dinner together. I am generally perched on the squatty IKEA step stool blabbering about my day while he is putting the finishing touches on the dinner that I have started. In his absence, my companion would become the voice of an unknown reporter on the radio who speaks with a cadence that I still have difficulty deciphering.

We began the process of separation on Saturday morning. With multiple errands including a trip to the barber, the mall, and the market, we both were prepared. As he stepped out the door to meet his taxi at some ungodly hour of the morning, I could feel the house nearly hiss as it deflated just a hint. I heard the door of the taxi slam and noticed how quiet everything seemed. As I made my morning coffee, I realized that things are a bit different this time. Life seems to be teaching me that the things I think I will find distressing have provided some relevant insights. I suspect that this time apart will be allow me to become familiar with our home….by myself.

Each day provides the opportunity to become aware of different parts of the house. I have grown accustomed to the rhythmic ticking of the clock in the living room and the unevenness of the floor boards in the kitchen. The time alone allows me to notice the rituals that create the fabric of daily life in this neighborhood. Just by observing, I can determine the time of the day. Each morning the mail slot opens its jaws to gobble letters and bills. It is 9:30. Everyday the same woman appears in the park across the street to allow her brown and white cocker spaniel to run. She stays in the wet and cold for nearly an hour and throws tennis balls. They repeat the cycle as the dog dutifully brings the ball back to her feet and demands another go. It is 12:30. I am becoming more comfortable. I begin to feel the new pulse of this life.

In just under two weeks we will begin an ever present ritual in our relationship. Much of it is unspoken. It commences with a phone call and some kind words marking the end of the time apart. I will hang up the phone and feel my stomach quiver. My thoughts will be silently fixated on his journey and imminent return. I will track his flight online. This time I will remember to stop by the grocery to pick up his favored foods. Physical activities to fight off jetlag will be planned. No doubt, I will shyly smile to myself and admit that I have done this for no other man. When he crosses the threshold of the front door, I suspect our home will breathe in and will bulge yet once again with the energy and vitality of two people.

Breakfast Surprises & The Slaughterhouse

2010-03-25T16:04:00.002Z

Dear Readers,

I must confess. This entry is a bit random. But, I have to share. There are some things that happen when you move to a new country that absolutely undo you. They blow your mind and freak you out. Events may violate a cultural norm or a way that something is done just in your family. Today, it happened. I was violated. Horribly.

I got up and began my morning ritual of making coffee, eating a muffin, and boiling an egg. As the coffee was gurgling on the stove and my lemon muffin had been gently warmed in the microwave, I reached for the box of nine free range eggs from the refrigerator. Never in the US have I bought just nine eggs. Anyway. I digress. With one hand, I peeled back the lid of the paper carton and saw it. Right there in front of me was an egg…brown and speckled. However, there was one HUGE white feather sticking to the top of it. Thank goodness my husband was not home because I loudly ranted, “Oh no, no no no….they didn’t! They left a feather on my egg!” I gingerly picked it up for further examination. Still balancing my now less than appealing breakfast between my thumb and forefinger, I stooped over the rest of the carton. Every single egg had a feather on it! “This must be a violation of some United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) or Food and Drug Administration (FDA) policy,” I muttered. I was so upset that I grabbed my coffee and went to the living room window to gather myself.

For those of you who know me well you may see where this is going. My mind raced. “What about bird flu? Swine flu?” I proclaimed. This would never happen in the US. Never in my life have I seen feathers on my eggs from Safeway, Kroger, or Giant Eagle. Not even the farmers market. The eggs that I got in the US were sterile. Clean. As you took them off of the refrigerated shelves, the polystyrene container screeched. Little did I realize that as crunchy and natural as I like to be, I have had few qualms about being so disconnected from the food chain while living in the US. Yes, I love to proclaim that I buy organic, wear my Birkenstocks, eat free range meat, and sing peace songs (kidding). However, as soon as I am faced with the realities of where my food comes from and how it may be killed, I am a mess. Here are just a few more examples this reality:

I recently told a family member about why I didn’t like feather duvets. We didn’t have those in Ohio. I didn’t know what they were. So, when my husband decided to purchase one, I decided I needed to know who and what was harmed during the manufacturing of this duvet thing that we would be using for years and years to come. After learning the gory details of how the geese were killed, I found a better and more humane alternative. We could purchase a duvet that didn’t use feathers from geese that were killed. I thought it was a lovely compromise. At that, it was only $5000. No worries. We were saving geese one duvet at a time. After proudly telling my story, the family member smiled sweetly and asked me if I was perhaps making life more difficult by seeking out these details.

Similarly, I recently struggled with this again. My husband recently took me to what he calls the “The Farm Shop.” I call it the “Slaughterhouse.” As we drove through the gates of the entrance to the “Farm Shop/Slaughterhouse” I said, “Look at all those cute baby lambs…with numbers spray painted on their sides.” My husband smiled and licked his lips. My heart sank. I am sure that the butcher at the slaughterhouse may indeed remember that pale and bewildered looking American woman who could only stand at the door…speechless.

Back to my egg. It tasted pretty darn good. What can I say, I am conflicted. The duvet he bought? I LOVE IT. In fact, I told my husband that it was like “sleeping on a cloud.” I must confess that the meat we bought at the “slaughterhouse” made a sumptuous stew. So there you have it. I have shared some of the meanderings of my mind. No solutions. There isn’t a nice little box to put this one in. I gotta go. I have to pick some feathers off my eggs so that I can make some cookies. Then I will curl up in my duvet and read my book.

The Offending Carton of Eggs

It Takes So Little

2010-03-24T07:48:00.001Z

As I sit to write on our loveseat, my sweater is covered in little bits of dead plant debris from the garden. I have been pruning and cutting back plants in an effort to coax new life into them. My mind reflects upon the events of the weekend.

I awoke Saturday morning and prepared to attend my creative writing class. As we jetted out the front door, I plucked a notice from post office off of the floor. “Post office?” I yelled. My husband nodded and slid into the front seat of the car. Moments later we arrived. I jumped out of the car dodging traffic. I could feel my husband nervously watch me crossing the street. I always forget to look the RIGHT way.

I recognized the box as the clerk slid it across the counter toward me. I knew that rectangular container stained with red, white, and blue ink with the words United States Postal Service emblazoned on it. As I glanced down at the left-hand corner, I noted the return address. This was from a friend in DC. I smiled at the clerk and rushed out the door to the car. As my husband pulled away from the curb, I grabbed our house keys from his lap and tore at the plastic tape at the seam of the box. My shoulders banged against the car door as we skimmed the edge of the roundabout.

The tightly packed box contained something that would make me dance in my seat. Instantly, I could smell coffee. “He didn’t. Oh my God, he did.“ I squealed. He sent coffee beans from my favorite neighborhood restaurant, Open City. It was just blocks away from my old apartment. The coffee from Open City was a constant companion over the last several years. Life moved at a different pace there. Often, my anxiety would get the best of me and my body would be lethargic due to insomnia. A latte from Open City coaxed me to begin the day again. The caffeine plunged through my veins demanding my body and mind into action despite the fatigue. The lattes also accompanied me through some of my most pleasurable times including leisurely brunches with friends and coffee dates. Life just seemed better with it.

Pressed against the wall of the box was a CD and a handwritten note. The music on the CD was from a man who for many years has played music at the Woodley Park metro station. His fingers danced on the bridge of the guitar while luring many tourists to linger for a few moments to listen. As a local, I rarely gave much thought to his presence. He was a part of the framework of the neighborhood. Year after year I hardly gave much thought to him as I carried my groceries (or coffee) to my apartment. Now, in this moment, in Portishead, England, I couldn’t wait to listen to his music as if it was the first time I heard it. I eagerly anticipated coming home and allowing the music to rest on my eardrums. I cackled as I read the note from my friend. He wrote, “Feel free to play his rendition of “Jingle Bells” over and in July for the full authentic neighborhood thrill.” Ah yes, how I had forgotten how the “guitar man” played Christmas carols in July.

As my husband pulled into the Buddhist Center where my creative writing class was to be held, I gingerly placed the box in the backseat of the car. My knuckle lingered on the surface of the corrugated cardboard. “Go on,” my husband coaxed. “You are going to be late,” he said. I had a fleeting thought. It takes so very little to bring joy to the life of another person.

A New Bra and Some New Friends

2010-03-16T17:20:00.000Z

I had to chuckle as the automatic doors of nursing home opened and I joined the group of ten or so women signing in for the WI meeting. The WI or “Women’s Institute” has been an English institution. While I hesitate in making comments about it, (due to lack of personal experience) I should say that in the past it seems to involve rather elderly women who make lots of cakes. I have also heard of references to singing and the movie Calendar Girls. My husband and mother-in-law outright laughed when I proclaimed that I was going to attend a meeting. In fact, my husband even made a comment about learning how bake just to make friends.

I had spoken to the Secretary of the WI on the phone earlier that afternoon about attending a meeting. As that nursing home smell hit me, I wondered if my mother-in-law was going to be right. I could hear her reiterating why this group might not be a good fit for me. I tried to reassure her that the group just met in the multi-purpose room of the nursing home. While she didn’t say it, she was worried that everyone might be a bit…ummm….old.

I figured that I had nothing to loose. Nothing. The worst thing that could happen might be that I could have blown away three hours of an evening. Yes, I was nervous and that is par for the course in my life right now. So, as I waited in line to “check in,” I took a deep breath, pushed my shoulders back, and stretched my spine. Yup. I was going to do this.

As I studied the women, I was captivated by one in particular. A woman in her fifties, she was bouncing as she talked. I noticed that she kept smiling and pointing to her breasts. It took me a moment to really pay attention to what she was saying. Then I realized that she was talking about her new bra. Apparently, at a previous meeting they had a presentation on lingerie and properly fitting undergarments. A group of three women stood around her staring at her chest and giggling. “Oh my God.” I thought. “I am now spending the evening with a bunch of elderly women who are going to discuss underwear!“ I turned on my heel to slip out when someone grabbed my shoulder. There was no way out now!!

An attractive woman looked me right in the eye and warmly said, “You must be Sabrina. We are so glad to have you join us.” As she whisked me off to the meeting room she introduced me to the bra lady, who by the way, was the President of the WI. “Excellent,” I thought. “Get me out of here.”

She led me to an empty chair and loudly announced so that all of the women around me could hear, “This is Sabrina. She just moved here to Portishead and she doesn’t know anyone! Please talk to her.” I thought, “If this isn’t the opportunity to meet people, I don’t know what is. Now they all know that I am not one of the ‘cool kids‘ and I have no friends.”

As I slid into my chair and pressed the tassels of my pashmina through my fingers, I peered around the room. This lot hardly looked like a group of elderly women. Their ages were diverse and there were even some women in their thirties and forties. Sitting just a few feet away was a beautiful woman with shiny hair, a creamy complexion, and the hottest shiny knee length boots. I noticed I was a little intimidated by her. She look so pulled together. After the presentation, she strolled up to me and introduced herself. As we bantered back and forth about living on the East Coast of the US, I was literally pulled away to be introduced to other younger women in the group.

I wove my way through the sea of women drinking tea. As my hostess walked up to another group of younger women I heard her say, “This is Sabrina. She just moved to Portishead from America….” “Unbelievable.” I thought. I couldn’t help but be grateful for their kindness and willingness to make introductions.

The evening ended and I walked to our home through the marina with no additional cake baking skills. The women were lovely. Unlike my networking events in DC, these women didn’t seem to have an agenda. They just came to find friends and be social. They were more relaxed and inviting. It occurred to me that it doesn’t really matter where we meet friends. People of like minds are often attracted to each other no matter where they find themselves. They could find each other anywhere….They just have to be out and about in the world to bump against each other. I opened my front door, peeled off my coat, and looked to see when the next meeting would be held.

Mother's Day.....UK Style

2010-03-14T23:55:00.001Z

Success! We celebrated Mothering Sunday by cooking brunch for my mother-in-law and her husband. As I set the table with many of the gifts we received for our wedding, I kept feeling the corners of my mouth turn upwards. I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else but in our kitchen--preparing a meal for family. Creating a space for loved ones to come together was a gift and I hoped that it would be received well. Brunch is one of our favorite meals and I couldn’t wait to devour the buckwheat pancakes, fruit, bacon, coffee, and orange juice.

With full bellies, we took a long walk around the marina and estuary. As we wandered home, we received a phone call from additional family members who popped by and were waiting on our doorstep. Upon arrival back to our house, we rushed to put coffee and tea on for our visitors. Thankfully, we had enough cookies and cake for everyone. The kitchen filled with commotion and people settled into the couches in the living room. A cousin peered over at me and said, “Whoa, this is a little weird. You live here too. It isn’t just Stuart’s house anymore.” In that moment, I was so very pleased to be able to share our space. THIS home began to feel even more like OUR home.

Spring has arrived and she brought blue skies!!

Enjoying the view

I Love Paris....When It Is Raining

2010-03-04T17:24:00.001Z

The weather report coupled with an airline controllers strike at the Paris Charles De Gaulle Airport didn’t bode well for my visit to see a childhood friend last weekend. We exchanged emails and chats daily about the strike and the weather. I promised I would bring my umbrella. Urgh. Neither of us were excited about a cold AND rainy weekend. Finally, last Thursday, I sat in the Bristol airport rolling my thumbs over each other after several flights to other destinations in France were cancelled. My friend and I agreed earlier this week that we each needed this weekend together. So, as you can imagine, my little heart jumped when they finally started boarding my flight. As the wheels pulled into the body of the plane, I relaxed and my stomach unclenched itself.

You see, for me, this weekend was a return to familiarity. The woman I was going to visit had been friends with me since I was twelve. Over the years, I began to wonder if she knew me better than I knew myself. As the plane made its way over the English Channel, I began to remember the mosaic of experiences that formed our friendship. I didn’t know that our friendship would span twenty years when we met as awkward and innocent girls in the 7th grade. Our connection has is dynamic and has remained and changed through life events including the breakup of relationships, graduate school, new jobs, and family dramas. With some people, connections are easy. I never have to start again with her. I knew that when I walked off of the plane, we would begin in exactly the same place that we left off the last time I saw her.

And, this is exactly what happened. It is at this point in this entry that I could list everything we did during the course of the weekend. For me, however, there are more important things to share. Our first evening together, over a bowl of soup, she reminded me of how to get around Paris. My friend handed me a book detailing the city streets and a map of the metro system. With a brief glance through the guidebook and some schooling on phrases in French, (the most important phrase was, “I would like a chocolate croissant, please”) I made plans to visit the Louvre while she worked.

The next morning, as I walked to the metro, my heart pounded. I was anxious and nervous. I was terrified that I was going to get lost. I was convinced that those maps she gave me were not going to work.. I am horrible at reading maps. As entered the metro station, I convinced myself that I would be emotionally scarred if a French person was rude to me when I was ordering that coffee and croissant that I had been craving.

After winding my way through the tunnels and stairs of the metro and thinking that the metro system in Paris doesn’t comply with the Americans with Disabilities Act, I boarded my train. The lids of my eyes closed for a brief moment. The clacking of the metal on the train tracks and the sound of a quiet air horn indicating the closing of the train doors were omnipresent with each stop. I was trying to determine what the sound of the French language would look like. I kept wondering if there was a visual representation of all of those amazing sounds that people uttered as they spoke. This was the moment when everything changed.

I wasn’t so scared and overwhelmed by everything that was new. I realized something I had forgotten. Getting lost or disoriented isn’t the worst thing in the world. It is just how you find yourself again. Learning how to communicate with people who don’t yet understand you isn’t earth shattering either. It occurred to me that if I got lost on the metro, I would backtrack and find myself again. Better yet, I could try some of those French phrases in an effort to find someone who might help. With these realizations, I began to enjoy myself.

As I walked along the Seine, I realized that I had forgotten how much I love the adventure of exploring a new place. I remembered that there was a time when I thrived on learning to rely upon myself. Making mistakes were all a part of the experience of international study, work, and travel. It seems that I have gotten into the habit of trying to be perfect. In Paris, I wanted to get ride the metro” perfectly.” Get to the museum “perfectly“….without getting lost. I didn’t want to ask for directions. A “perfect” tourist wouldn’t have to ask.

As I watched the flat and squatty tourist boats push their way swiftly along the Seine, I remembered working in Cambodia. This was a time when I relinquished perfection. Perfection didn’t matter when you were motivating a staff to feed and educate impoverished women and children. Perfection didn’t matter when you tripped over a beggar with one leg who was grasping for your spare change. There was no room for worrying about perfection when you danced in the shadows of ancient temples with friends. Ah yes, I had forgotten that I enjoy life a lot more when I can just experience everything. Frequently, that means getting lost and asking for help. It also helps to relax and just chill a bit.

Back to my friend. Our lives have changed dramatically since were kids. During the course of the weekend, I got a glimpse of us in the windows of the shops as we walked down the streets. I am in awe of the lives we have created. Perhaps, I am just grasping a friendship that spans so many years. We frequently commented upon the similarities of our upbringing and worldviews. During the course of the weekend, we tried to figure what kept us together. There wasn’t one conclusion. My friend, she is beautiful (if she is reading this, she won‘t like me to say this). She is an attractive woman with a deep and thoughtful mind. She negotiates this culture with grace. I notice her as she confidently orders my dinner in French and carefully scrutinizes her wine. I have to smirk as we discuss the art we have seen at an Expressionism exhibit. I still can‘t believe that this is the woman who used to blow her nose on her shirt with me when we worked in an outdoor nursery together. Yeah, we have come a long way.

It was a full weekend that was packed full of museums, cathedrals, parks, amazing food, and the French countryside. I do love Paris. Sadly, I am not sure I love Paris for most of the traditional reasons. For me, Paris merely provided a backdrop to spend some precious time with my friend as well as reflect upon my own life.

Chartres Cathedral

Finally, coffee and chocolate croissant

Eiffel Tower

Buttes Chaumont AKA "Pretty Park"

Self Portrait

"Is This Really My Life?"

2010-02-20T19:57:00.000Z

Today, I spent the day with my in-laws in Wells. Wells is a small cathedral city located not far from our house. I absolutely love Wells. My husband and I visited last year when I was considering a move to Bristol. As we parked the car, I marveled at how life can change in fourteen months. Before, I timidly walked the streets with hesitation at the prospect of a new life in this country. Could one survive without a metro, Starbucks, and Target? This quaint little city lacked everything that was a staple in my life.

This afternoon would be different. Now being married and living here, I yearned to embrace this little city. The second visit would create a sense of familiarity (this is an experience that I don’t frequently have in this country). I couldn’t wait to wander through the narrow streets and navigate my way through the maze of elderly folk, strollers, and dogs.

As we meandered between the stone buildings, I found myself taking a mental snapshot of the moment. Like a stone in the middle of a shallow river, people moved around me as I closed my eyes for a second. A young man across the street sat slumped against an empty storefront playing an accordion. Cool air brushed against my cheeks. My nostrils flared at the smell of a newly-lit cigarette. Opening my eyes, I squinted to focus upon the blue sky that was dotted with cotton textured clouds. I shifted my weight from the front of my toes to my heels upon the uneven cobblestone streets. “Is this really my life”, I whispered to myself.

After a visit to the Bishops Garden and a discussion of the application of Buddhism to Western lifestyles (yeah, I know how to mix it up), we strolled through antique stores and the outdoor market. I was completely satiated by the time we left the local vegetarian restaurant. It couldn’t get any better.

Bishops Garden, Wells

On our way home, we passed through Cheddar Gorge. Apparently, this is the true home of Cheddar Cheese. My mother-in-law playfully insisted that we needed some pictures. I exited the car as she orchestrated the angles we should use to gain a complete view of the Gorge.

Everything Has Arrived

2010-02-18T11:12:00.000Z

I received word that my boxes would arrive this week curbside to our house from the port in London. The timing couldn’t be better. I yearned for some familiarity and some pieces of the life I lived just a few months ago. On more practical note, I was getting so sick of wearing the same clothes since early December. I tried to be cool and not break into them. I couldn’t resist.

As a follower of the Buddhist tradition, I would love to admit that I have mastered the art of detachment. A part of me wishes that I could have left all of this stuff behind. In fact, I was a little embarrassed about how much I kept. It was mine and each item packed was given serious consideration and often deliberation.

As my fingers fumbled along the edge of the packing tape, I remembered what it was like to tear open all of my presents on Christmas morning as a little girl. I sat in the entryway of our home and pulled the long and wide strands of sticky tape from the tops and sides of the boxes. I kept thinking that I should gently cut each box open in an effort to preserve the box. I couldn’t do it. I longed to see the contents of the boxes even though I knew what was inside each of them. The outward pouring of affection over inanimate objects was absurd. I squealed when I came across the jewelry box my mother had given me when I left for college. I sat on the steps and became almost drunk with pleasure at finding dozens of my pashminas. As I tenderly pulled each one out of the plastic, I touched the fabric to my nose. I detected the smells of wood and polyurethane. Ah yes, that was home….nearly 2500 miles across an ocean. That smell was my cramped and old apartment in Washington, DC.

There were quiet moments. I found the solar powered wind chime that sat in my father’s window many years ago. As the rays of the new day were collected in the solar panel, the chimes would jiggle against each other and wake me. Despite his passing nearly 9 ½ years ago, he just didn’t seem so far away.

There were the wedding gifts as well. Packed so carefully were the handmade presents to wish us to into a new life. My breath quickened in anticipation of the future as I unearthed a quilt, pottery, notes, and photography, to bless our home. Could we be anymore loved?

Keeping these things help me move forward. The pieces of my past seem to bolster me and support me as I create a life. It just feels more like home with them here....

Baby Steps......

2010-02-16T22:29:00.000Z

I haven’t wanted to write which is the reason for the long pause between blog entries. To be honest, things got a little rough around here. I was homesick and frustrated for the time that it was taking me to feel as if I belong to this place. Last week, things started to turn around….a bit.

One of the things that could make life easier for me would be to have some women friends. I had a lot of them back in DC. The women in my life nurture me. They nourish my mind and keep me feeling connected. Without them, I feel cavernous holes in my life. The echoes of my time spent with them rattle in the memories of coffee dates, shopping adventures, long dinners, and walks.

In an effort to meet people, I attended an event in Bristol at a museum. I was disappointed that the event was attended by only four people. I keep trying to believe that we are exactly where we need to be either emotionally or even by locale. However, I began to feel even more disillusioned with my latest efforts. While putting on my coat, a women approached me and started up a conversation. Taken completely aback, I couldn’t help but notice her warmth and interest in speaking with me.

It only takes one kind gesture to halt days of negativity and pessimism. After a brief cup of tea in the museum café, we decided to continue chatting as we explored the exhibits. Quickly, we discovered shared experiences living abroad and common interests. With a smug smile, directed me to a yoga studio, a meditation center, and other venues to meet like-minded people. As we parted, we promised to get together again. Will I see her again? I certainly hope so. In some ways, it doesn’t matter. Meeting her gave me a little more confidence in myself to continue pressing forward as I make a life for myself here.

I recently mentioned the concept of “baby steps” to my friends. It really only takes tiny steps to make true progress. More importantly, baby steps often lead to full strides, skipping, and running. When I arrived home, I found several emails and/or notes under my door from people I had invited to get together. All were welcoming and excited to spend time with me. Maybe, it will be okay here……

Our Home

2010-02-10T12:44:00.000Z

Many of my friends and family have requested pictures of my new digs. What better place than to post them here. Today was the perfect day to take a few snapshots as there were intermittent moments of sunshine. Frequently, the weather changes from sunny to windy and rainy without hesitation.

The first time I came to Portishead, I was relieved and pleasantly surprised. I have no idea what I was expecting. I seem to remember that I was thinking about a life similar to living in a country village with quaint cottages with thatched roofs, lots of sheep, and smokey old pubs.

Our home is locted in an area called Port Marine. It is a new development that sits on the site on the old Portishead Power Station. By 1997, the power plant and neighboring phosphorus plant had been demolished and the building of this “estate” began. The whole area is bustling with an elementary school, shops, and a rec center. I love that I can walk to everything. In fact, this is a necessity because I haven't learned to drive!There are many different types of people who live in our neighborhood including a mix of older people, families, and young professionals.

As you can see in the pictures, there is a marina just a few short blocks way. In warmer weather, we often walk down to the locks to see the boats come in and out of the marina. It can be a fascinating and lengthy process as the water is transferred from one area to another to assist the boats shifting location. These afternoons are spent at our favorite coffeshop at the edge of the marina. Meme Chocolate makes frothy cappuccino that rivals Starbucks and I enjoy sipping my drink and watching the dozens of vicious swans swim around. This is also an ideal spot in the summer for people watching.

The picture below displays our house. Yes, friends, we live in a pink house. I have tried and tried to tease my husband about this and he refuses to allow his manhood to be violated about the “hue of his home!” The terraces in the garden even match the shade of the house. I LOVE IT!

These pictures show the views from our windows upstairs. I feel so grateful to live in a beautiful space that invites us to spend time outside when it isn’t pouring. Yes, life here is different than Washington, DC. One would expect that. While at times I yearn to hear the sirens of motorcades or even the smell of the hot brakes on the metro trains, this is a good life too. When I go to bed at night, I hear nothing but my own heartbeat. Almost silence. When I awake in the morning I hear the sea gulls yelling at each other. I have to smile. I wonder how these seagulls differ from the gulls that live on the banks of the Potomac....

New Beginnings...

2010-02-07T21:33:00.001Z

The time has finally come for me to begin a blog. I never thought I would write a blog. However, it was at the gentle persistence of my husband, Stuart, who kept urging me to write. I loudly proclaimed, “Why are people interested in what I have to say? I am just starting a new life and a new marriage. People do this all the time.” I had to smirk as I heard my own words. Yes, as many of you are aware, I have wiped the slate clean, and started anew. On November 8, 2009, I married my husband. Just over two months later, I transitioned out of my life of 12 years in Washington, DC, and moved to Bristol, England. I arrived filled with anticipation, excitement, and sheer terror. I mean, who does this, starts a new marriage and changes every major part of their life….all at once and in a foreign country? Right, that’s me. I tend to do “it” big.

This brings us to the present moment. It is with some hesitation that I make the first entry. Beginning a blog is making a commitment to honestly share my experiences and perspectives (why would I do it otherwise)? However, I don’t know where this will go. I struggle with perfection and looking good and by talking about my life here, I open a window to the challenges and the not-so-glamorous side of living in another country. Admittedly, I will also be able to share the joyful experiences as well. Life isn’t really about a polished and perfect exterior….not mine at least. My mother often reminds me, “firsts and beginnings are not what they are cracked up to be. They are often overrated and far from perfect.” So, I invite you walk with me down this path; I know not where it will lead us. Come with me as I create and share my new beginnings.