Life in the middle….
How often do we talk about that with honesty? Facebook shows lovely photos and Instagram a pithy phrase.
I am in the middle. The middle of all the details that make up a move: proof of address and waiting for keys to a place and new tags and new grocery stores and schools.
Culture shock, we learned in college, is made up of a myriad of tiny jolts. Each one is insignificant by itself, but together they add up. Soon the person rips between loving everything about the new place and people to hating it all. Somewhere, on the other side of the turmoil and grief brought by change, is acceptance.
That is true for me here too. I look the same. I speak the language. I have maps. I blend in.
But I am feeling the strangeness all the same. I am not used to being in a sea of white. The sound of English all the time is jolting to my ears, used to the melodic rhythms of Spanish. I am experiencing symptoms of HDD (Hug Deficit Disorder).
And in the moments between there are flashes of goodness. Walking into a Birth in the middle of the night I feel utterly at home. I know this space, this language without words.
Slowing down my raving thoughts, I notice. I notice a red breasted bird, a squirrel, a pine cone, a butterfly. The “detestable to do list”, it’s actual name, stops ticking off in my head.
And for a Moment all is well. A cup of tea, a space shared with a new friend, blackberries from backyard bushes… the limbo chatter in my head is stilled.
embracingbirthandlife 