The other day, while killing time waiting for mom to get out of a doctor's appt., I wandered into Twice Sold Tales on the Hill. And, despite the fact that I have not yet even purchased bookcases for either the tomes already in Seattle or those to come on the boat from Spain (next week, yay!), as is my wont, I could not resist getting meself just one wittle teeny bookie wookie, and so I picked up
The Italians, by Luici Barzini. Septieme provided the perfecting setting for to give it a good peruse, and in so doing, I came across the quote below, from Nathanial Hawthorne.
'The years, after all, have a kind of emptiness when we spend to many of them on a foreign shore. We defer the reality of life, in such cases, until a further moment, when we shall again breathe our native air; but, by and by, there are no future moments; or, if we do return, we find that the native air has lost its invigorating quality, and that life has shifted its reality to the spot where we have deemed ourselves only temporary residents. Thus, between two countries, we have none at all, or only that little space of either in which we finally lay down our discontented bones.'Now I can't say my own feelings deriving from the expat experience are quite so bleak as Hawthorne paints it. However, I find more than a grain of truth in his words. I cannot shake the feeling that I am no longer of just one country, but two or two and a half. (Spending so much time with British friends and co-workers and visiting the UK so often has made it seem almost like an area of the US or maybe Canada with which I have a more than passing familiarity, and is thus easy and welcoming to visit, but which is not so very like the part I call home except for the language.)
In addition to a sense of upheaval about place, there is the linguistic disconnect that derives from having so long juggled, sparred with and mangled a combination of American English, British English and Spanish with other people who could do the same with at least two out of the three. (I am proud to report that a few hapless Englishers now describe a not good situation as "going/gone to hell in a handbasket".) The result is that I sometimes feel frustrated when I can't just rely on a Spanish phrase or an British English expression to effortlessly get my point across. Perhaps frustrated is too strong a word, for it is rather an over-awareness of my language which runs the gamut from self-editing as I speak, laboriously explaining what I would like to be able to express succinctly and just having at it, listener be damned. I feel keenly aware of how the latter two approaches might be perceived by said listener, and this leads directly back into the idea of fitting in.
A couple of people have asked me if I've regretted my decision to come home. No, I have not. But I also miss terribly that other life I had, which also makes Spain and Europe a home. And then I wonder, "what am I even talking about?"
Is home not a physical place at all, but rather more the people and things that occupy that space with us? Sometimes home can be as small as the space inside another person's arms, but for me, that comfort is not enough to frame an entire life. A house can be a home, but not necessarily. All my stuff packing, shipping, picking-up, unpacking and purchasing has led me to the inevitable conclusion that for me, home needs the right accumulation of useful possessions and pretty things (and books! yay for books!) to make me feel I belong. However, they can also overwhelm me with an unbearable weight I sometimes care not for.
And yet, I think the place is crucial. Madrid's buildings, fountains, squares, cafés, museums and avenues are all truly fine, but where I really feel I belong has water and mountains. If I were to have stayed in Spain, I would have had to seek out some place which offered these. I almost want to cry with joy every time I catch a glimpse of the Cascades or the Olympics when they're out. And the sight of the water of the Sound or Lake Washington is indescribably fulfilling to me. Having said that, I know that if all the wonderful friends I am so lucky to have in Seattle had left the city during the 12 1/2 years I had been gone, I would surely not have felt compelled to return.
And those friends and my family have made me feel so wonderfully welcomed and wanted. They have helped me so: Diane with her queenly apartment-seeking radar and being a generally fine paintress and handy object loaner extraordinaire; Kathryn and John with the loan of a vehicle and general stuff storage services; Darcy with her trusty truck and good-humored toting and carrying skills; Muffin with the gift of a couch and good neighborliness; Mom with her check-writing, handywoman, housing and general my-daughter-can-do-anything skills; Andrés with album and truck storage; Loren with zigzag bookcase and little red table storage; Conifer with taking time out from her incredibly busy and stressful life to welcome me home upon arrival; my surrogate parents Sue and Rick, for opening their home and family to me over the Christmas holiday; Kenly with house-sitting duties and the future loan of a vehicle; Walter with his lunch planning, invitation extending and liberry book requesting; Courtney with her shining, warm, welcoming face; and the many other people, of new and old acquaintance, who have extended their hands and words to me. Without them, it would have been a cold homecoming.
And I leave many people behind, all of whom I keenly miss. I will miss seeing them grow and change, seeing their kids grow up, being a part of their lives in a way I was always able to be with folks here, because this is where I am from and from where my sense of being me derives. But now "me" is also someone who has lived this other life. So I am drawn to the not necessarily logical conclusion that home can only be what you make of where you are. Like many things, it is a decision, an attitude an idea. Perhaps this is why I feel so disconcerted.
