Sea legs. I’ve got them. Living a bi-cultural life you really have to develop them to move from one continent to the other, from one season to the other, from being close to being far apart.
His suitcase is out again. He pulled it out of the closest, set it in our room, unzipped it and propped it open. In the days to come he’ll fill the suitcase with sundries and shirts, plenty of pens and other tokens from our life here.
This is a practical matter. As things come to mind, he tosses them in the suitcase so nothing is forgotten in a last minute rush. But it’s also become a ritual for us, as ones who live in transit. The open and empty suitcase signals another turn in our patchwork life. The yawning suitcase tells me the tide’s about ready to turn, better brace for the motion of change once more.
My daughter came in and saw it there. She knew. Instantly she came to my side, ‘Mama, I don’t want papa to go. I’m not ready for him to leave.’ Me, neither. But we look at it together and prepare our hearts. Another leaving and more good-byes. Fresh tears from the tearing apart that happens each time a packed suitcase is loaded into the shuttle van.
But this isn’t the first time. It’s also not the last. We live in this back and forth motion, rocking our family from close to far, from together to apart, from hugs and kisses to skype chats.
So I’ve developed these sea legs over the years to absorb the shifts. I know what’s coming. I know he has to go and that I have to let him. I know I’ll cry on his shoulder and then deep into the quiet night alone in our bed. I know the alarm will sound off and it will be time for the brave face and breakfast and school drop-off. I’ll clean up a bit behind him, put away the leftover clothes or things that didn’t fit in that big black suitcase.
I know we will grieve a bit, the kids and I. So I’ll be sure to stock enough ice cream in the freezer to get us through a few days. My daughter and I will cry and snuggle more. My son will want longer talks, more assurance that we’ll reunite soon. We’ll talk together round the dinner table about why he goes back to Burundi – ‘because he’s a friend to the poor,’ my son will note. And we tell our favorite papa stories, keeping his presence a near as we can even as we all know he’s further from us.
I’ll find my new normal as single mom. The kids learn to quiet down in the morning because I wake up bit by bit, and not entirely before I manage to get them to school. I will drop back into my solo pattern, Starbucks to write, weekly Eucharist, cooking with the kids, the nightly news until my eyes glaze over (and shut).
Sea legs come in handy when you live a bicultural life, when one of you (and sometimes all of you) is in transit between places. Sea legs are less about accommodating leg muscles and more about inner balance and resilience.
I see that suitcase, open and filling up, and know my balance is about to be tested yet again.
I miss him already.
Beautifully put, Kelley. Isn’t it amazing what we can ‘get used to,’ without ever really getting used to it? For ten years, my husband commuted to his job in Glendale so that I could work and we could live in Santa Barbara. Every week on Tuesday morning, he would pack his bag, drive out the driveway and live in our daughter’s guest house. Then he’d come home again on Thursday night, just in time for dinner. NOTHING like what you’re enduring, but still, some parallels. I learned after the first 5 years to take one of my days off while he was gone, giving me the gift of solitude for a full day, if I chose. And I chose it a lot. I enjoyed my job, but friendships are tough to build when you’re a pastor, something I learned the hard way, so I made an intentional effort to grow into my aloneness more fully. Overall, it was very, very good for me. And indeed, there were other gifts and blessings in these times of separation, but the ache never goes away. (And I stayed up way too late most nights, just because sleeping in an empty house up here in DARK Montecito never got easy. I get the glassy-eyed news watching. Oh, yeah.)
what is it about the late night news? Guess it lulls me to sleep, even distracts me from the half-empty bed and prospect of tossing and turning alone. If I stumble to bed half asleep… somehow I think I’ll feel it less. Doesn’t really work that way, but I keep trying!
This is beautiful and moving piece, Kelly. I found you through a friend on twitter – you’re writing is wonderful! Can’t wait to read more.
Oh, I love this. I’m married to a man who grew up with his feet on both continents. It’s hard and wonderful all at once and impossible to explain to outsiders. My heart is with you in this.
“He’s a friend to the poor.” And so is the mama in that home.
This is so moving Kelley, and so hard. Thinking of you all and praying for you in the transitioning…
Thinking of you Kelley!