Starting over

I find myself a little overwhelmed when I think about my parents moving back to the States. There are a lot of reasons for this, of course, but lately the one that is most pressing is just the thought of them having to get rid of EVERYTHING. It's hard to comprehend them starting completely, completely over. It's just another reminder of how temporary everything feels to me... How do you decide what from fifteen years to keep? Or rather, how do you let go of everything you can't take with you? That is really the issue.

My parents have a fairly extensive library of books and of movies. (We were known in the community for our movie collection, actually.) They won't be able to take much with them. Of course, they have things stored in the States (in several places, actually), but the bulk of the stuff you need in everyday life will have to be bought. Saying, "oh, they're moving back to the States" is so easy. But since I've been here I've been realizing what that actually means. I asked my mom about having to rebuild her kitchen wares (we were in the kitchen at the time). She is philosophical about it. But I feel tired when I think of them having to sell EVERYTHING.

So I guess, as a nomad myself, I'm considering again how to live where you are while keeping in mind the next step... I think about moving to Europe, and my immediate second thought is, oh gosh, what will I do with my BOOKS? Furniture, eh, I don't care about that so much. But my books... They tether me to earth. This is comforting as well as frustrating.

Into the Wardrobe

I started reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe for the first time in I don't even know how long. Part of me was kind of afraid to reread it; so often books that mean a lot during childhood don't stand up to time. But I have been enjoying Lion so far though. It feels extremely comfortable. I could probably quote large passages verbatim. It is also comforting.

I first read it during fifth grade, in Texas. It was a horrible time. We had just moved from North Carolina (and it was a hard move because it was final. After Texas we were going to move abroad to an as yet unknown country indefinitely) and I was in public school for the first time since kindergarten. I'd been home-schooled for a few years also and I was frankly so terrified I couldn't even eat in the mornings before school. (I remember sitting with my parents and them coaxing me to eat just a few bites of frozen pancakes). My English teacher, Mrs. Alexander, was a wonderful woman, and very kind to me. And she assigned us to read Lion.

To say that it changed my life would not be an overstatement. I immediately fell in love with the land beyond the Wardrobe. I wanted to have adventures that meant something. And I wanted to be able to go home again afterwards. But we were in a huge, huge transition. So the Narnia books became my portable home. I read and reread them obsessively. They comforted me throughout our year in Texas and our months in the Philippines and were stabilizers during the first bewildering months in Chiang Mai.

So in some ways it seems bittersweet and fitting to reread them again now, during this last transition from Chiang Mai as home. Today we are going to see The Voyage of the Dawn Treader as (most of) the family, and this is bittersweet and fitting too. I think this is the one where Aslan tells Lucy and Edmond they can't come to Narnia anymore. (I almost typed "home" instead of Narnia and that shows you how I feel about this.)

I believe he tells them something along the lines of, "You must grow close to your own world now." And even still those are some of the saddest words I have ever read in my whole life. Now I know that underneath that grief (but what claim does that world have on me? What makes it more mine than this one?) there is also a streak of anger: why did you pull us out of that world to begin with, if it was only ever temporary? And why us? Why not some other children?

I must confess: I hate The Last Battle. Narnia isn't something that can just be ended. I want to think of it continuing, even though I can't ever go there. Something should be permanent. But even though I don't read that one I still know it happened. Jack Lewis, I have a bone to pick with you. Subtlety is a literary virtue. Your version of heaven falls a little flat. No wonder can ever match what I felt the first time I saw the lamppost with Lucy in the snow.

"Come further in," said Mr. Beaver.

I think I'll always wish I could.

Leaving takes so long

Leaving Thailand is not going to be easy. I have been preparing for this for a long time, but I just wasn't prepared for all the little reminders of The End. In the course of a normal conversation my mother will tell me who has asked for what furniture and what they will do with all the things they cannot take.

It's a part of life here. We 'claimed' furniture, vehicles, books, possessions sometimes years before the owners left. A lot of things in the expat community have long histories of being passed from family to family. It's no longer just a couch. It's a couch that has belonged to various families and now belongs to you, for the moment. And sometime, sooner or later, it will belong to someone else and your name will be part of the story. For a little while, it helps to know your things are with people who knew you and cared for you, and it is helpful to have things from your friends who have left you behind.

Since I've been on my own, I've had a hard time caring deeply about furniture; it's weird to buy things 'new,' that have no connections except for the ones I make. It is strange to own things that have had no part in the complex set of relationships that exist in a transient community.

I kind of feel that when you pass things on, you haven't completely left. You're still connected in a small way, even after your name ceases to be attached to your old things, because you remember what you left behind.

I find this strangely comforting.

Jet lag is always a shocker

I don't think I'll ever get over being surprised by jet lag.

I realized as I (finally) made myself pack that... one of the reasons I was dragging my feet is because I feel, on some level, that I'm loosing both my homes. There is a part of me that still thinks if I don't start something, it can't end. So I wished, on my way, that I could stay in an airport and never have to loose anything. I know this isn't how it works, but I wished it all the same.

In Bangkok I teared up on the shuttle taking me to the last plane. I hoped no one saw; what would they think, this farang girl crying for a country she can never have?

And then I got to CNX and saw my parents and now I'm mostly just completely glad.

I'll make the most of this last trip to my parents' Thailand home.

Home again, home again

I leave in the morning. It's a weird feeling.

Making myself pack was kind of hard (and in fact, I have not finished and I'm supposed to be leaving in like, 7 hours. Whateves, yo. I will borrow my mom's clothes and my sister's clothes.) I think it's because I don't really want this semester to end, as full of angst and woe as it has been... It means I only have one left. And that is very sad. I'm not ready. But I guess I have to be? I'm facing the next step in learning how to say goodbye I guess. It's all a process. I just like parts of this process less than others...

Here is the airport code journey:

JFK=>NRT=>BKK=>CNX

It is a comforting list. I have moved through it before. Let the airport apparatus swallow me whole.

(I guess I should also find my passport. It's on my desk somewhere with all the readings I did over the semester. Also, I realize San Fran is long ago and far away and has sort of ceased to exist since I am no longer there. But maybe I will write about it en-route. There will be time to spare.)

There is a horizon to chase

So, I still have lots to do, but wanted to take a minute to update this wee blog a bit.

The quote that is currently running through my mind is:

"I felt as if I were a stand-in, and extra, waiting for my turn to go on. I kept wanting to leap up and shout, 'Wait! Stop! Unwind! Back to the beginning..." and by the beginning, I meant last September." (Sharon Creech, Bloomability, p. 262).

Sometimes, I wish it was last September, with all this program before me. The end of this semester makes me so very, very sad. But I also feel very proud of what I have accomplished in the last year and half, and I know whatever horizon I end up chasing this time, I will do so with a much better knowledge of myself and what I have to offer. Pretty cool.

December 15 will be here far too soon...