A New Beginning, and Other Cliches

Ahh, finally after a near two year hiatus, I am resurrecting the old blog. There are many things I've wanted to write since my last post yet the desire was never strong enough to put pen to paper...er...fingers to keys. But now, now there is a real and definite reason that I must start doing this again. My life has changed in the most epic way possible - my first child arrived 11 months ago to this day. Stepping into the role of mother has been everything I ever thought it would be and I adore every minute...well, almost every minute. I am thankful every day that I was blessed with such a beautiful and curious and social little girl, Estlin Luna. You wouldn't think it's possible, but I love her more and more every single day.

But a part of me was forever changed and lost somewhere along the way between finding out I was pregnant and actually bringing her into the world. And I have struggled for 11 months to get that part back. I'm beginning to feel like that's impossible.

Our bodies change in so many ways during pregnancy and after. I knew all this but still, the results can be astounding. The stretching of skin, like claw marks along my sides and belly. The aches and pains and pressure and bloating and heartburn. My fingers went completely numb for the last few months of pregnancy, a distraction I could never find relief from that affected every single thing I did during the day. And the weight. Oh, the weight. I told myself in the beginning, I'd gain the average amount and stay healthy and strong. But the last month or so, I just lost control. I didn't feel like moving and all I wanted was to eat. The two combined don't bring about good results. It was ok, though, because I'd get my shape back after giving birth with healthy eating and exercise. How hard could it be?

It has been one of the hardest struggles of my life.

I see myself in pictures or catch my reflection in the mirror and I don't recognize that person. I never struggled with my weight. I was so skinny growing up and in high school, I probably looked somewhat UNhealthy. In college I had a bit of fluctuation, but that was all the late night Taco Bell and Jimmy John's while studying and being on my own for the first time without my mom telling me that one shouldn't consume ice cream every single evening while catching up on Lost. But I never got "heavy" just got rid of that slightly emaciated look. After college, in Portland, OR, I was the most fit I've ever been. I ate like crap; I literally had at least one meal out a day, Thai food for dinner every night, and don't get me started on the expansion of the ice cream addiction. However, I was constantly moving. I was one of the thousands of bicycle commuters that fill Portland's streets and if I wasn't on my bike, I was walking. I didn't own a car, so if I was going anywhere, I was using my body to get there. I see pictures of myself from then and think, "Yes, that's me. That's the me I remember being." Now...now I'm embarrassed for even my husband to see me undress. That's an awfully sad place to be in.

I've been trying lots of different things. For one, they say the weight will fall off of you if you breast feed. Not for me. Breast milk has been Estlin's main source of sustenance since day one yet I've struggled to get back to normal. I was walking all the time, but the weather got in the way. I started going to the gym, sweating hard for an hour several days a week. I quit carbs. I quit sugar (kind of; oh sugar, you demon of sweetness). Nothing worked. And since I'm an all or nothing kind of girl, if I didn't see results in a few weeks, I'd give up or give in to temptation. I have very little self control when it comes to cupcakes and Indian take aways. I can always be convinced to cheat just a little. But a few little cheats in one week is enough to halt any improvement from occurring. I thought for sure by the time Estlin was one, I'd be back in all my normal clothes and feeling great.

Here we are, 11 months post-partum and I still wear baggy maternity clothes because I'm ashamed of my still pregnant-looking belly. I'd die if anyone asked me when the baby is due. Oh, the baby? You mean my one year old? Yeah...

So I can give up and give in and admit defeat and say, "Whatever, I'm a mother, I should look different and I should be proud of my body for creating a child and I shouldn't be ashamed of the evidence of that that I still bear." But I'm not happy. I don't like what I see and I want to change it. So...how?

Last week, I won a spot to participate for free in this weight loss program designed specifically for mothers struggling with their leftover baby bellies. It's called MuTu (short for mummy tummy) and it's being run in conjunction with Slimpod, which is like hypnobirthing but for weight loss. I had to promise to commit and give it my all and I am now accountable to this amazing opportunity I've been given for free. I know how easy it is to cheat and give in, so I'm going to blog about my progress in order to keep myself accountable to everyone around me. I also want to do this because for the longest time I felt like I was the only one going through this struggle, that none of my friends or family members had any trouble with their weight after giving birth. I know this isn't true. I know we all have improvements we want to make and struggles we need encouragement over. So I want to be the example., I want to admit publicly that I am struggling and that I'm unhappy with myself and I'm ready to change and maybe by doing that, I can encourage someone else to take that first step also.

One of my hugest struggles with the weight, is that it is a constant reminder of the experience I had giving birth to Estlin. For those that are close to me, they already know this story and know this struggle. I feel I have not been able to heal emotionally  from the loss of my desired birth experience because I have never gotten my physical self back. This will be one of my main goals. If I can find the old me under these layers of extra weight and skin, I might then be able to forgive this body for not doing what it was supposed to do. Another step will be to tell that story here publicly. I'm not sure yet when I'll be ready to do that, but hopefully soon. I need to let go of this pain  before I can ever heal.

So, here goes. I hope my friends and family will follow me on this journey and keep the encouragement coming and in turn, I will work hard to reach the goals I have put before me.

A Dress Rehearsal For Departure

It has only just recently dawned on me that I have been in the presence of an extraordinary woman my entire life. Not only have I had the pleasure of sitting in the same room, even speaking to her personally, but I have been made aware that she frequently brings me up in conversation, acknowledging that there is a particular place in her heart that I have been comfortably spending time in since my birth, despite major competition from dozens of others. Even beyond all this, past the realization of my importance to her, without even thinking of what she has meant to me or understanding my own role in her life - that of her fifth granddaughter - is the heavy, no... debilitating weight now on my shoulders that I have never spent any time, not even for a moment, thinking of her as anything but the one thing she has always been to me - my Grandmother. For now I realize, perhaps at almost the exact point in life that it could be too late, that she has spent a lifetime, 84 years, living as so many other roles. And that in each of these roles she has created memories and affected others around her and loved and lost and dreamt and played and perhaps, even wasted time in regret or deceit, spent hours crying behind closed curtains where she has spent the last 18 years alone, with nothing but these memories. My Grandmother has lived a lifetime, hides a wealth of knowledge and wisdom deep within her, and has only recently let me in the slightest bit to see the person she was long before my father existed, decades prior to my own arrival; a young woman, a girl even, falling in love for the first and only time, with a man I barely ever knew.

My memories of my Grandfather are few and far between, as they say. I remember an average man, in terms of his build and stature. I don't remember him towering over me, or having any struggle picking me up. In fact, I don't really remember what it was like to be held by him at all but then again I would have been a baby, a toddler, during those times and none of us really remember that, do we? For I'm absolutely positive that he held me and if his reaction is anything like my own father holding his grandchildren, well, it must have been a very wonderful feeling indeed. I remember a lot of plain white T-shirts and light-colored slacks. I remember glasses and thin hair. I even remember his scent when I was near him, but there aren't quite words for that. Perhaps an aftershave or a particular bar of soap. I'd have to admit, if there was an exact setting that I see my Grandfather in, in my thoughts, it's in his favorite chair in front of the television in the sitting room at his home. This chair is a lazy-boy, blue, or gray perhaps and the TV is on some old black and white film, or a gameshow. These particular details don't necessarily matter but this is where he is in my mind and I truly have a very hard time seeing him anywhere else. This might make my Grandmother sad, or my father wonder how I couldn't remember all the other things we did together with him, but this is my only memory. My Grandfather died when I was 10 years old. I remember that day clearly, at least the morning right after my father burst through the door not long after leaving for work, calling up the stairs to my mother that he didn't have long and was running to their house right away. I knew but didn't really know at that age, what all that meant. But my Grandfather was dying and I guess my father was hoping to make it there in time, to say goodbye, to watch the final breath leave those cancerous lungs, to maybe catch a glimpse of a soul departing, to hold the hand of his grieving mother. My school bus stop was at the end of the street where my Grandparents lived and I have this incredibly pristine memory, a moment forever stamped in the passport of my mind- a 10 year old me, sitting on a cold sidewalk, waiting for a bus, with my back towards that house, wondering if Grandpa had died yet and wondering what that really meant and if my Dad was crying. Then the bus came, and I don't remember anything after that.

For my Grandmother, a day that I barely remember is most likely one of the worst days of her entire life. She wrote to me and admitted that when she was younger, she never thought about growing old or dying, and that she lived in the moment (ah, youth, we aren't aware of its power and meaning and opportunity until it's gone) but that her whole world fell apart when my Grandpa died. Forty-seven years they spent together, bringing nine completely unique children into the world (although their physical similarities are astounding now as they all continue to age). Can you imagine the amount of food one has to prepare for a family of eleven? The thousands of loads of laundry? The countless baths and bedtimes, the quarrels and apologies? My Grandmother gave birth nine times, chose nine names & watched nine children grow up and leave her home, only then to watch her husband slowly disappear into a very sick and emaciated man. At his funeral, she watched one of them unbutton the top button of the suit he was being burried in, something she says he always did the moment he got home from work. She watched these nine adults resort back to their childhood selves, as they said goodbye, as they cried and regretted not having one more conversation or one more hug or one more opportunity to say "I love you". She watched all this and even though it was her Jack laying still as dust on an old shelf in that casket, she stayed resolute for those nine children. She didn't allow the fear and loneliness and torment that she knew would consume her the moment she was back in their home alone, to show to any of them. And oh, how that solitude sank deep into her bones, like the freezing fog of an early winter's night, it seeped into her and stayed and somehow managed to fill the incredibly large space where her husband had been. Despite her absolute sanity, her complete acknowledgement that he was dead and gone and that was that, she still sat waiting for him to come in or out, she still listened for the sound of his footsteps in the kitchen or his voice humming as he shaved in the bathroom. She'd peek through the curtains if lights passed by, just in case it was him driving up the driveway. Maybe she even said his name sometimes, just to move the air in a stale and empty room. How many nights she spent laying awake, desperately desiring to hear him call out to her and there was nothing but the hum of life gone on around her. I'll never know how many nights, but I know for sure, if she loved him like I love my husband, she's waited to hear that voice again every single second since he last spoke. I cannot comprehend such an agonizing desire, I don't understand such torment of an unfulfilled wish. I hope I don't have to for decades to come, or perhaps ever, if I'll be lucky enough to be laid to rest before my husband.

A paragraph can do no justice to the time lived in between meeting for the first time and burrying your husband, and all those lonely years to come after. But that's the thing, I have so little knowledge of all that came between. I know that the moment she saw him, her heart leapt in her chest (her words). But she wasn't actually his first choice of date after returning from World War II, even though she knew that it would all be over for the other girls if he gave her a chance. And after a burger out with friends, a walk home, a long talk well into the night on the swing on her front porch, they kissed. And that was that. He was the one, no doubt about it. My own heart warms at this memory of my Grandmother's, since my own story of finding true love went along a similar route. You always read about seeing someone and just knowing, for me that was the case. Apparently, it was the same for my Grandmother. My marriage proposal happened on the top of a mountain on the West coast of Ireland. Hers wasn't as romantic but it came eventually (after saying that she enjoyed the company of his cousin Helen, he asked "Would you like her to be your cousin too?"...apparently, romance wasn't his strength). They married young, something her mother didn't approve of (she wanted her daughter to continue her education and to travel and see the world; I wonder if my Grandmother wishes she had those experiences now too?). But there's no regret once you start having children and I'm sure the moment my Grandmother looked in the eyes of her firstborn, Mark, there was no going back. My father was the fourth child and there was a bit of a gap between him and the fifth (apparently, my Grandpa's favorite joke about those years was that that was when they finally got a television!). And I'm sure in what felt like a blink of an eye, their home was full of children and toys and messes and dirty dishes and stained clothes and every other thing that comes with a large family. Even now, when she is looking back, 84 years must feel like the blink of an eye, or at least a breath taken, despite what must be millions of breaths that came between.

Now, you're thinking, of course I must have known that my Grandmother was a mother too and a wife, and sister and daughter and all those things and you'd be right. I knew all this. But I never thought of what it must have been like for her as a child, as a teenager finishing high school, as a young woman dreaming about what it would be like to kiss someone, as a scared twenty-something going into labour for the first time. I never thought about her struggles or fears, her desires for the lives she wanted her children to live. I never considered that she, as her own self, as Betty, felt and dreamt and lived her own life. I just always thought - well, that's my Grandma. And now, now - perhaps when there isn't enough time left, or I'm too far away and her penmanship isn't that legible anymore, it's just too late to hear all the thousands of stories she has and the millions of memories of each day gone by, when I know - I know for a fact - she has the words I so desperately want to hear. I want to know that you can survive love and lost, that those 18 years weren't all torment but perhaps comfort found her in the snippets in her memory she saved of his touch. I want to hear that seeing the world isn't nearly as incredible as watching your babies fall asleep on the chest of their father, your husband. I want to know that the distance between family is nothing compared to those moments you do get to spend with them, despite all the moments spent apart. I want her to say that regrets make you stronger, that she isn't scared to be nearer to the end than she is to the beginning (or maybe that it's just another beginning?). And more than anything, more than all of this, every word before this, I want her to know that I love her and I love the parts of me that came from her and how proud I am that my blood came from her blood, that I am her descendent, the first daughter of her third son. I want her to know that her branch of our family tree is one of the strongest and that it will continue to grow through her nine children, and their children and their children's children and beyond; that she'll always live in each of us, that we'll never be without her because we are only here because of her.

We seem to always find a thousand words we wish we'd said to those we love, after it's too late. And I vowed to myself, when I left my birthplace a week ago, that I would find a way to tell you all these things. The way you hugged me, the way you told me you wished you had gotten to know my husband better, and that look in your eyes, like you were trying to memorize my face, when you said, "You've always been my special girl." This felt like a dress reheasal, an amateur goodbye, a practice for when that time comes. So before it does, before it's too late, I've got my lines memorized and I know exactly what to say. I love you. And I know what love is, what life is, because you first loved and there's never enough words in all the world to thank someone for that.

Two pieces, two places

Some days I do honestly wonder, is it physically possible to live my entire life away from my parents, my siblings, their children, my childhood friends, everyone who knew me as I changed and grew and became who I am today? Will this be a life long struggle of back and forth, wading through stuffy airplanes & stale airports for elated reunions & eventual goodbyes and all the emotion those come with? Will I ever become truly and completely settled here or will a part of me always need to plan the next trip home, have a day in the future to look forward to? Could I honestly say I'm totally happy here if a part of me is perpetually waiting to return to where my family are? I don't have the answers right now. I just know the daily ache for these people never disappears or even fades in the slightest. In fact, with every hello and goodbye, I seem to find it harder to live without them by my side. But Ireland is my home, my life, my husband is here and soon we'll start our own family. So what I'm asking is, can one truly live with a heart in two pieces, two places?

A Life In Pieces

Maybe going back home only six months after moving abroad was too soon. Maybe going back to Portland, Oregon for a mere week brought along the realization that I had wasted so many hours in the four years I lived there not taking advantage of what that city had to offer. Maybe learning how to care for a newborn while feeling totally unready to bear my own children made me think I was a few steps behind in life. Maybe the time spent in my home state of Michigan, where the ones I love the most live, those that share my blood, made me confirm that I absolutely did not belong there anymore. Or maybe it was the cancelled flights, the night spent alone in a stale hotel room after a day of airport goodbyes, the spilled bottle of juice that had soaked the contents of my purse (including my laptop), or the fact that for a whole day I had been stuck in between getting back to my husband in Ireland and having just a few more hours with my parents, moving nowhere and having no way to call either party for the comfort of a familiar voice. Whatever it was, for one of those reasons or all of them combined, I found myself at JFK airport in NY, surrounded by hundreds of fellow travelers, with tears springing suddenly and violently into my eyes and no way to stop them but to hide away in a stall in the women's restroom, something I'd found myself doing quite often on these long journeys between all the places I've called home. But I've gotten ahead of myself, for the tears came at the end of my month back in the States, and before those tears came so much happiness and pure joy.

I had been looking forward to this trip home with an urgent expectancy unlike any feeling I'd had before, ever since hearing the day after my wedding that my younger sister was expecting something of her own. The moment she told us, I felt a piece of my heart crack in half and go in two completely separate directions; one piece melted into my sister's skin as I threw my arms around her, binding us together thru this happiness towards a new, yet unborn life that neither of us knew yet but already totally and completely loved. The other piece got stuck in the back of my throat and got me all choked up to the point of leaving the celebrating members of our family and hiding myself outside to cry and cry and cry - that piece of my heart was the realization that I was now legally bound in my choice to live thousands of miles away from all I'd ever known and how much I'd miss because of that choice. Now, because of this unborn thing, I'd definitely be coming back home sooner than originally planned; with my sister already three months along, I would be coming back sometime in April or May, and one winter in Ireland before returning for an American spring didn't seem like long at all. But the winter was long and I had never been more ready for a vacation from a life I had yet to truly settle into and maybe that's why this month back home was a whirlwind of emotions. It hadn't been enough time removed from America for me to be used to the distance and to feel that Ireland was definitely now my home; as if I'd spent six months in a still-plane hovering miles above the Atlantic moving not one inch closer to Ireland or farther from the States but perfectly suspended directly between the two, refusing to let me let go, inhibiting me from latching onto a thing. And so, having already been used to time spent apart from my husband, I kissed him goodbye at the airport in Shannon, for once not leaving behind a trail of tears through the security checkpoint, and happily boarded my fight.

The week in Portland was a flash, a blink of an eye in the timeline that will be my life. I was both saddened and at the same time, absolutely delighted to see that life had carried on exactly the same without me. Of course, I could never expect my close friends to wallow for years and years in my absence but it struck me as oddly poetic to see my belongings I had left behind sitting exactly where I had left them. No one had picked up the hand-crafted vase I had placed on the mantle so as to physically reminisce of their long-lost friend, or chosen to put my old lamp next to their bedside as a reminder to think of me whenever its light bulb glowed. I could have been more upset, but in a way, it comforted me. We all want to be missed, but it was nice to know I hadn't ruined anyone's life by going...The week wasn't short of laughs, excellent meals out, or plenty of time spent doing a lot of the things I used to do. But taking my usual busses, walking past familiar landmarks, coffee shops and boutiques, and seeing so many faces I didn't know but that seemed completely recognizable (for in Portland's uniqueness, comes a frightening similarity amongst its residents), I realized that I wasn't sad to have left, I wasn't pining for that life. Portland served its purpose for me during the four years I resided there, and although I missed my friends constantly (or wished to always be near an unabashedly pretentious veggie burrito and an unapologetically strong cup of locally roasted & brewed coffee), I found myself secretly giggling at all the little things that make Portland, well, weird. It rained and rained and I didn't miss that a bit (I get enough of that here, now) but on my last day there, as if the Oregon sky chose to either bless me for visiting or wish me good riddance, the rain clouds cleared and gave way to that typical yet always wonderfully appreciated perfect Portland summer day. I hugged friends goodbye, this time knowing that it could very well be years or so before seeing some of them again, and without any tears, boarded the next flight to return to Michigan.

The first couple of days home were spent lazying around my parent's house waiting for the inevitable phone call from Canada that there was a baby on its way. I had flown on my sister's due date and luckily didn't miss the birth. I'm sure of it now that my little niece was waiting for her Aunt to arrive before joining us all and sure enough, it wasn't until just a mere two days past that date that my sister gave us the go-ahead. My youngest sister, my mother and I excitedly packed overnight bags and started the three hour drive to London, Ontario, actually beating her and her husband to the hospital. When they did arrive, they did not even acknowledge our presence in the waiting room but checked-in and went right away behind closed doors (but there were a few minutes that passed while my brother in law gave the RN their information allowing my sister time to bang her head against the wall, lightly of course). I was filled with a sudden and overwhelming fear of how bad the pain must be if she couldn't even say hello and give quick hugs, it had been so long since we'd last seen her. All I wanted to do was hold her tight and tell her it would be ok, but I didn't know that for sure since this was something I had yet to experience myself. After a few meds were given out, we were allowed into the birth room to finally say our hellos and good lucks. She barely said a word, but I kissed her on her forehead, told her this is what she had been waiting so long for, that her daughter was about to be there for all of us to meet, and I let her squeeze my hand into oblivion as another contraction passed. Several hours later, dozing on and off, watching awful food television, and frequently readjusting on the uncomfortable leather couch, my brother in law came out to inform us all  - 7lbs 15.9 oz, 10 fingers 10 toes, dark hair and eyes and somehow, my father's exact same chin - our little Adelyn Marie had arrived healthy and without complications and if we liked, we could go in and meet her.

It was a feeling I can not quite find the words for, for hours before there had just been a few people in that room and now, there was one extra. Something brand new, someone none of us had ever seen before and all of a sudden - there she was, this hour old little human. I felt like doing a comical double-take between my sister's still swollen but now empty belly and this floppy little thing that couldn't even hold her own head up if she tried. Wondering, even though I have full knowledge, how it got from there to here. When they put her into my arms, I suddenly had this overwhelming feeling that I was now holding the most expensive, precious and rare treasure I had ever laid eyes on, and that moment that her eyes met my own, I realized there was now a new love in my life that I had never known before. I had no words. My mind just kept repeating, I love you I love you I love you! over and over again and when I thought there would definitely be tears over such a tremendously new and exciting emotion, there was only the extreme joy of this beautiful new life that had yet to experience fear or resentment or anger but just whole & natural & pure, pure love. I honestly hoped that she could feel that, that she could feel how much we all loved her already.

I know I will forever look back on the week I spent at home with my sisters and this new baby as one of the best weeks of my life; even though I'm (hopefully) only a quarter or so through my life I know without a doubt that there won't be many weeks that could rise to that occasion and top those seven days.  Because I live so far away and maybe also because they were a little scared of being left alone with a new baby (don't all new parents have that feeling with the first child?), Audrey and Josh had asked me to stay with them for that first week after Adie came, along with my other sister, Betsy. We delighted in the task ahead of us, way over-enthusiastically changing dirty diapers, willingly waking at all hours of the night to rock a sleepless baby back to sleep, cooking meals and folding laundry, doing whatever we could to make this frightening new experience just the slightest bit easier for the new parents to handle. I watched with complete fascination at how quickly Audrey took to motherhood. I felt my heart soar to hear Josh singing to his baby girl while changing her clothes and would sometimes catch the way he looked at her, as if there was no one else on earth that could possibly compare and I realized I couldn't wait to see my own husband with that look in his eyes. One day, when the house was quiet, we prepared a bath for Audrey, turned the lights down low, lit a few candles. After she finished, she asked for us to bring Adie into the bath with her. I lingered only slightly, watching through a half-closed door as my younger sister (who used to dirty herself playing soccer or liked portraying Danny Zuko from Grease whenever we played pretend as children) now in the purest feminine act I had ever seen, nakedly bathing with her newborn girl, tucked gently between her thighs, softly pouring warm water over her tiny head, as Adie's little mouth puckered up towards her mother's breast. I forgot all about the tomboy of a sister I once had and promised myself to always remember this sacred moment of womanhood that I had witnessed whenever I think I don't have a clue about what it takes to be a mother. Apparently, it just comes naturally. Apparently, it's the most beautiful thing in the world.

The day before we were to head back to Michigan, I was attempting to rock our little one back to sleep. We had all started doing this funny bouncing walk through the house whenever we were holding her and today it seemed to be bringing her a certain peace. She wasn't getting sleepy but was contently looking straight into my eyes. I was amazed at how piercing her gaze was, as if she knew the sadness that was enveloping me in the realization that I had just one more day with her before it would be months until I held her again. I wanted to memorize everything about her new self at just one week old; the fierce darkness of her new eyes, the tiny furrow of her brow, the miniscule hairs that poked out around her ears, the strength of her little legs whenever she kicked at the changing table, the absolutely gorgeous scent of her head, the way all five of her baby fingers wrapped tightly around just one of my own, the one cry that would break suddenly- violently sucking in air and releasing it with such fervour as if she feared never getting fed again (a sound I found such happiness in despite the absolute desperation in its tone). I began to cry and I didn't want her to see me like that, weak and vulnerable, even though she herself was these things, even though I knew she had yet to understand what adult tears represented (they being so much more than the want for food or a clean diaper, a lack of sleep or desire for warmth). I watched her blink softly in the sudden afternoon sun that came from behind a cloud and through the window landing silently on her face and at that moment I hoped and hoped and wanted so badly for just a fraction of this memory of me holding her to stay hidden somewhere deep in her conscience.

Oh, these were the hardest goodbyes I had ever had to say. Our car was packed, we were set to go. I knew Betsy was sad to be leaving, but it couldn't compare to my own melancholy as our distances from our sister were incredibly different, mine being hours & flights and miles and oceans away, hers just being miles...I absently wandered the house for a bit, attempting not to make eye contact with Audrey, knowing immediately that I would burst into tears. I hugged Adie so tight, as tight as one can hold a newborn without squeezing the life from them, I briefly contemplated hiding her away in my suitcase and then decided it was best to just have one of my own someday. Then finally, came the time to hug my sister goodbye and the inevitable happened the moment we wrapped our arms around each other, the tears were too much, this was a parting unlike any other. I knew she feared her ability to do this on her own and I felt that in the tightness of her grip around me...don't leave me don't leave me...and my precious sister, I hope you know how hard it was for me to leave you for now with the arrival of the first of the next branch of our family tree I felt sick with the miles and time between us. I felt physically how far away from her family I would always be, how much I would miss, how little our children might know each other. Ours was a bond that increased a thousand fold during this week, as if we were now chained together somehow and neither of us wanted to let go. But we never really let go, do we? I kissed her and told her not to worry, that she was already an amazing and attentive and loving mother and that she'd be fine, more than fine, that she had a husband who would die for her and their daughter and that I would always be "there" for her. I gave one last look to Adelyn in her bassinet and tried once again to memorize every detail. How ironic that she had yet to say a word to me or express any love in return and was the newest member of my family, the one I knew the least, but somehow she was the most difficult one to say goodbye to. I kissed her little head and whispered her name and she cooed ever so slightly before slowly closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep, my absence in no way affecting her day, the knowledge not yet there that I just wouldn't be around that often during her life. As we drove away, I hid my red eyes behind sunglasses and wondered, for the millionth time, if I truly did have the strength to survive so far away from my family.

So there I was, crying (again, I guess there had already been a lot of tears during that month...) in the middle of JFK. I numbly boarded that plane, after a 24 hr delay, angry that I had been prevented from getting back home, saddened that I had lost extra time with family, and luckily had a seat at a window so I could stare in that direction and hide the flow of tears from fellow passengers. They wouldn't stop, no matter what I did and as we took off down the runway I felt as if there was some string attached to my heart that was pulling tighter and tighter and tighter for every hundred miles we lifted higher into the sky and that eventually my heart would be completely torn from my body and left behind to float back down to earth. I attempted desperately to stifle the sobs that were now coming from deep within my soul, and I feared I couldn't help crying out in the middle of this plane, loud enough for anyone within five rows to wonder if some animal had just died on board. My hand flew to my heart and without even thinking I repeatedly patted my own chest as if to calm it, to soften its violent beating. I cried for the next hour, thinking about the scent of my father, the way his eyes went all watery when he dropped me curbside at the airport (goodbyes at security have become too hard for me as I hate getting patted down while crying). I thought about the softness of my mother's voice when she said she was so proud of me, the way she reminded me so many times to pack a few granola bars for the trip (which, of course, I still forgot to do). I thought about how much laughing I did with my youngest sister, the brief visits with my brother, the beautiful mingling of my other sister's new mother smell that exactly matched the top of her baby daughter's tiny head. I knew these memories were going nowhere but that I was now on my way thousands of miles east, going somewhere far away and were memories enough to live off of? How often would I see my parents throughout the rest of their years? How well would my nieces and nephews know their Aunt Amy? Why did my family have to be so close and loving and well-matched, to the point that we probably would have chosen each other as relatives if choosing your family actually existed? And how was it possible that I had been lucky enough to marry a man that actually was worth moving far away for? I knew I'd never regret the choice I made, I would just have to live always in pieces, leaving little bits everywhere I go in places I cannot stay, never really whole. What do they say? Home is where the heart is? Oh, all the homes I've had, all the places I've left my heart...

Oh, all the life that will be lived without me there...
All the life here in front of me I have left to live...
And there's nothing left to do but keep on living.

Being Here

These days have been like all the others so far. Sleeping in late, so as to use up half the day. Coffee. Email. Facebook. Breakfast. Work out. Shower. Lunch. More Email, Facebook. Stream television shows I'm missing from home. Watch downloaded American news programs. Clean something. Dishes. Laundry. Maybe organize a messy shelf. Even more Email, Facebook. Dinner. Tea and biscuits. Watch a movie with my Husband. Bedtime. And I'll lie there in bed and wonder - what about today was worth waking up for? I've experienced this before, a sort of circumstantial depression. My first year in college I could barely get out of bed at all. Maybe I'm just prone to taking a bit longer to adjust, to adapt. Maybe I'll always be just a little bit sad wherever I go.

I thought I was doing really well. The first couple of months here I was loving it; the quiet, the expanse of green land, walks along the ocean's shore, keeping a house for my husband. The permanence is sinking in now and I'm starting to wonder what it is, besides being happily married (which I am), that I'm supposed to be doing here. I used to do a lot of things. I used to do theatre, sing in a choir, I played piano and was almost always too busy to ever have time to just sit around. In college, I would write every day, I was mad about it. I couldn't write enough. There wasn't enough time in the day to get all the words out that I was thinking, the sentences continually forming themselves in my head every waking hour. I was obsessed with reading, with seeing what other people wrote, the beauty of their creations. In Portland, I loved riding my bike around the city, everything looked different from two wheels. Riding home at night became like a spiritual experience; hardly any cars, the breeze whipping past me, the muscles in my legs burning from the speed at which I'd pedal, I'd race myself every night. It was exhausting. And also my favorite way to relax after work. I even became one of those cyclist that kept it up in the pouring rain, it filled me with pride to be one of the only ones still biking when the roads were wet and slick. I honestly believe I'll get hit by a car if I try to bike here, even during the brightest and driest hour of the day...

Here...here, where is there a theatre? A choir? We don't even have a real grocery store. There's no room for a piano in our tiny apartment, no money to buy one either. I'm still reading all the time, more than I probably ever have in my life. A few books a week sometimes. But the more useless I feel, the less I want to write. If I write, then I'll have to admit to everyone what I'm thinking everyday. There's not a lot to do, so I don't want to do anything. I feel trapped in my own home, yet some days I have no desire to leave it. If there was an emergency, I wouldn't even be able to get behind the wheel of our car and drive myself anywhere. I don't know how to. I can only go as far as my own two feet will take me and that's usually to the beach. And I'll stand there, quietly, tasting the salty air, letting the dampness soak through my layers of skin, trying to look as hard as possible beyond the line of the horizon and maybe, just maybe, I might catch a glimpse of home.

***
As much as I miss my family, I moved far away from them years ago. I already know what it's like to have major distance between myself and my blood, my clan. I remember the first few months of being in Portland, I thought for sure I had made the biggest mistake of my life. I kept trying to figure out what it was I was doing there that was truly worth being so far away from the people that raised me, that molded me and guided me. I spent most of those first 30 days (that happened to be the wettest on record, ever in Portland) trying to hide my sadness from my friends, attempting to stop myself from crying during the seven minutes it took to walk to work, my eyes only looking three blocks of sidewalk ahead of me, my head down low under my umbrella. I remember the first time I ever went somewhere alone, how frightened I was to take the bus, how ashamed I felt that I was even the slightest bit scared to do something so easy. Most days, I'd want so badly to call home, to hear my mother's voice or the sound of my father laughing in the background. But I couldn't call home. I couldn't hear their voices because my own voice might break and then they'd know that maybe I was regretting moving so far away, they'd realize I was sad and lonely and the truth would come rushing out and I wouldn't be able to hold back all my doubts and fears from verbalizing. I barely wanted to admit to myself the extent of my sadness. There was no way I wanted my parents to know how out of place I felt in this new, scary town. It was so different from home, and I was still the same.

Slowly and surely, without even realizing it, these feelings faded, they evaporated and dried up like the rain. My first Portland summer arrived and with it came the most beautiful and perfect sunny days I'd ever experienced. The temperature was always just right, the sky was always incredibly blue, the rain disappeared for months. The city was alive, happy, cured from its own winter blues. So was I, and I was beginning to realize what made those rainy winter months worth it, why people survived them to make it to the summer. It truly was perfect. It was what you always hoped summer would be; and everyone that found themselves troubled throughout the rest of the year, forgot those worries and were just purely happy from May to October. You could feel the positivity in the neighborhood streets, in the coffee shops and restaurants. We'd all wear as little clothes as possible so we could soak up the sun on every inch of skin, store the warmth and light for when the dreary days returned.

I got over my fears and realized there was a place for me in Portland. I fell in love with the city, the vibrance of its culture, the weirdness of all the different types of people, the thousands of different restaurants and bars, the parks on every corner, the trees lining the residential blocks, and how if you paid close enough attention, you could catch the most stunning views of the city at the top of hills where the roads dipped away and the foliage opened up and then there it was - the entire expanse of downtown, or the West Hills, or Mt. Hood. And I'd think, how lucky am I, how lucky am I to live here! And how in the world did I ever feel like I still belonged in Flint, Michigan, one of the more depressing places in America? Here, the whole city was alive. Yes, it rained all winter, but it was pure green all winter. The coffee was delicious, the beer locally brewed. I could get vegetarian food everywhere I went, buy organic in every grocery store. I didn't need to own a car as it was just as convenient and a hundred times cheaper to bike anywhere in the entire city. Almost all of my closest friends from home had moved too and we started our own clan, representing the many Michigan transplants that somehow ended up in this progressive, "left coast" town. We were surrounded by mountains and rivers, forests and waterfalls, a mere hour drive to the Pacific and its breathtaking rocky coastline. Portland is pure and innocent in its attempt to be perfect. And it's not perfect but it's unabashed at trying. It screams, there are still good people here! And you'd be a fool to live there and not try to be good yourself, to be happy with who you are and to let everyone else be themselves too. In Portland, we lived and let live.

I didn't move to Portland to work in a Thai restaurant. I didn't move there to cycle from one bike lane to the next. I didn't move there to eat vegetarian. I didn't even more there to follow my friends. I moved to Portland because it would end up being the only place in the world that I'd somehow cross paths with my future husband. And he happened to be Irish and his life happened to be in Ireland and we decided that our lives would become one in his homeland, not mine. And so I moved. So I left the place I had grown to love, the place I knew I belonged and had come to feel an active part of, I left my friends and the culture, the restaurants and organic grocery stores, I gave away all my belongings that I had accumulated over the four years I spent there. I even gave away my beloved bike, the thing that probably defined my life in Portland over anything else, I gave it away to a coworker. She says she hasn't used it yet because of the weather. It fills me with great sadness to think of my prized Portland possession, leaning uselessly against a garage, rusting away in the rain, winter weeds growing around its flat wheels.

I'm going home to visit Portland and Michigan in three months. It's all I think about right now. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever really feel at home here, or if my days in Ireland will be spent counting down the ones left until I return again.

***

The other day was the hardest one so far and for the first time, I allowed myself to express my sadness in front of my husband. I cried and cried and told him I didn't know what to do, I didn't have any direction in one way or another, and I desperately, achingly missed home. I didn't want to see our friends, I didn't want to go out in public, I didn't even want to take a walk along the prom. He held me and said, it was ok. He said what I needed to hear the most, that this was normal, that he wasn't surprised and actually expected me to go through this sort of period. But he also said that it was my job to pull myself out of this rut, that it wouldn't always be like this and I had to realize that myself. Before I knew it, he was helping me put my coat on and putting me in the car. "We're gonna drive down the coast, I'll take you somewhere new," he calmly suggested. I didn't refuse.

It was the late afternoon and the sun was bright and warm, high in the sky in front of us and shining powerfully through the windshield, nearly blinding us. I didn't want to admit it then, but I already felt a little better, a little cozier. I stared out the window as he drove us along the small, country roads passing by the water's edge. The Irish countryside is unlike any other; it's one massive green, rolling land, property lines are marked and separated by ancient stone walls made by one flat rock piled upon another and another and another. Even in the distance you can see where one piece of land meets another, from the sky it looks like the entire country is made up of thousands of puzzle pieces. We pass lush, emerald hills, each dotted by skeletal remains of old houses and churches, maybe just three or four stone walls still standing, a triangle outline of what used to be a roof. I think, someone used to live there. Centuries ago, that was a family's home. And now here it stands, a ghost of its former self, untouched by its modern neighbors, left alone to fall apart stone by ancient stone. In America, a building like that would be bulldozed to the ground. Here, it remains intact as a trophy of a former country, a reminder of a simpler time, a small but important part of history, never to be torn down but to just slowly fade into the countryside, to sink back into the earth it was built on. I want to feel a part of a place that doesn't tear down or build over its origins, to blend into the kind of people that treasure the walls that once held their ancestors and who look upon ruins with pride, as a constant reminder of who they all came from.

We stop at Spanish Point, a very small residential town that gets its name from the ships from the Spanish Armada that came to ground here and found themselves wrecked and drowning on the Irish shores in a failed attempt to attack England. There aren't any shops or pubs, just some houses and a huge hotel, and a long, white strand; a beach that, despite only being a handful of miles away from our beach in Lahinch, seems totally different and new and serene. The tide was coming in so whatever walk my husband was hoping we could have was out of the question. So we just stood there, as close to the incoming waves as possible, listening to the deafening sound that the ocean makes. He found a bench and sat me down next to him, gently putting his arm around me and pulling me close. He felt me shivering and asked, "What's cold?" I told him my left arm was so he held me tighter and quickly rubbed my arm up and down with his gloved hand. The sun was close to setting so we sat there waiting and not speaking, a whole expanse of Irish coastline to ourselves, just staring off towards the giant and perfectly round ball of orange resting just above the horizon. Its brightness was blinding so I had to look away every few minutes, when I'd blink I still saw its outline on the inside of my eyelids. Once it started to hide behind the clouds, it disappeared almost instantly, fading away from the perfect roundness to become just a half and then a sliver of sun. And then, all of a sudden, it was gone, and in its place was a soft, glowing halo of orange light that brightened the sky for a moment, before blending in with the purple and blue hues of dusk. It was a perfect sunset, on a perfect beach, with the calming noise of a powerful tide and the strong arm of my husband wrapped tightly around me. Still, without speaking, we stood up and walked back to the car to head home. Home, this is my home, I thought to myself. I am so lucky to live here. 

On the drive back, I found myself smiling, but still holding onto that sadness. I didn't just move across the country, I moved across the world. And I didn't move here with all of my closest friends from home, I moved with my new husband. I left all of my former life behind, and I am deeply mourning its loss, maybe wishing I had done more with my time, taken one more bike ride, met up with my friends a few more times instead of staying at home to watch tv. But isn't that what I'm doing now? Staying in with my sadness instead of socializing with new friends or breathing in the crisp and damp Irish air? It's only been three months, I can't possibly expect to feel settled yet. But I am the only one that can take that first road to recovery, to acceptance, to adaptation. Since I met my husband three years ago, I've known perfectly well I am meant to be here. I might always long for family and friends, for an old life and its pleasures. But I am here now, and now, I must be here.

Vignettes of a New Life, So Far

Even arriving, requesting "residency" while going through immigration, and collecting my 7 bags packed full of my last 26 years didn't make me realize that this is now my home. The familiar smell of damp air mixed with burning turf soaked into my skin after exiting the airport, it chilled me thoroughly and for a moment I felt extreme sadness. I was here. For good. It was the end. It was the beginning. The moment passed, and I was overwhelmed with the excitement one gets when starting a journey filled with unknowns. Hurry, hurry, load the car, lets go home. It rained the whole hour it takes to drive from Shannon to Ennistymon. I didn't mind it.
Within days, there were things I just had to have. New pillows (his were older than me, I swear, and entirely too flat for me to get proper sleep). I wanted a frame for this photo of my parents that my mother gave to me at the airport in Detroit. Over 30 years and still as happy as the day they said, "I do." My father smiling his usual professionally photographed smile. My mother smiling, my smile. I had to put it behind glass right away, so I could display it somewhere that would allow me to see it daily, to see them daily.
We drove to Ennis, a town 30 minutes southeast of us, the boutique capital of Ireland actually. He bought me new pillows, picked out a gorgeous stained wooden frame, which matched the background of the photo perfectly. Then we started down the street to a shoe repairman, to replace the heel on my favorite boots. The man gave himself an hour to do the job, so we decided to head to the chipper around the corner. With one bag to split between us, we passed the remainder of time wandering the town. It had started raining, and as we passed the bag of chips back and forth, I got this wonderful hot whiff of vinegar and potato every time I reopened it to eat more. We frolicked through the cobblestoned streets, I giggled loudly at how stupid we were to forget an umbrella and how I could barely see beyond the low brim of my hat, losing him at corners and crossing in front of cars. He asked me for the now soaking bag of chips, "They're really wet!" I laughed. "Potato soup," he answered back.
I suddenly felt the moment as being ours and ours alone. I realized how beautiful our footsteps sounded on the wet cobblestones, how ridiculous we must look window-shopping in the pouring rain with nothing but a bag of hot chips, how wonderful it was to be making memories in my new home with my new husband. Such small things. I reached for his hand, he held it tightly and pulled me towards the shoe shop and out of the rain. As the repairman was gathering my boots from the workroom, we stood there shivering and smiling at each other, shaking off the wet like two muddy dogs. He kissed me gently on the cheek. The cold of his nose, the radiating warmth of my skin.
So this is how a new life begins.

***

I love the smell of his parent's home. I have since the moment I went to meet them for the first time. The damp of Ireland never seems to go away no matter where you are, and this building smells like it's been collecting that dampness and hoarding it inside since the moment it was built, over 150 years ago. It's not at all a bad smell, but one that I've grown to love, a scent that my nose couldn't identify at first but now reminds me immediately that the voice of my mother-in-law will soon be greeting us at the top of the stairs.
Whenever we go visit, we enter first past the bright red but now empty shop front, walking along a stone passageway where the cold always hits me hard and fast, as if it had been secretly hiding there just to chill me to the bone. Once we pass the underbelly of the staircase, we turn left to find the old door that leads us up that staircase and into the rest of the house, the handle of which I have never been able to figure out how to correctly turn so that it actually opens the door.  No matter the weather, it's almost always uncomfortably cold inside, except for the sitting room in the front of the house that looks out over the main street, where my in-laws keep themselves busy during the day. This room has the stove, forever burning coal, whether full-on or just embers, and it's by far the coziest part of the entire house that consists of enough bedrooms to count on both my hands, amongst other expected rooms.
Within moments of arriving, she's offering us tea. We'll both sit on the small red couch against the far wall, my eyes always wandering to the piano to my right that hasn't been played in years but is now functioning as a shelf for dozens of framed photos of the family. I must admit, I felt a soft warmth when I first noticed our picture on that piano. It was before we were engaged, but already there I was, family. I take note of how she serves us tea, every time, so that I'll know how to properly do it whenever we have guests at our home someday. It's brewed in the teapot, poured gently into each cup, and then placed onto a serving tray on a small serving table between us. Milk in the tiny pourer next to the sugar bowl, tea spoons on their sides, all surrounding the plate of biscuits (cookies, in America). After walking through the cold of the main street passageway, I always welcome the warmth of tea. Plus, it's an incredibly Irish thing to partake in. I've been told, even if the postman is simply dropping by a package, you should always offer him tea.
I've often daydreamed about this house. My curiosity gets the best of me. I try to picture my husband as  a small boy wandering through it's room and corridors. I remember being a child myself and wanting so badly to have this sort of old-country upbringing, believing wholeheartedly that I should've been born in the 1800's in rural-somewhere, because modern, city life just wasn't for me. Then I lived in cities for a bit as I got older, and I loved the convenience and bustle, the fact that something was always happening somewhere close by and I never had to wander far to find a store or a friend. But this house is reminiscent of times, years, decades passed. There's no numbered address because The Walls have lived here for generations, since the last surviving member decided to take up residence there after the Great Famine. It's seen so many people come and go, it's heard so many conversations, so many souls have put down their guard to gently fall asleep at night in the many bedrooms. Its had work done, a second house built onto the back, an old barn off to its side. Across the alleyway in the back, there's this horribly dilapidated building that used to be a shoe factory but that is still part of their property. It has a flagstone roof so old, it's protected by some National Conservation group. You can still see old shoe parts hanging from the rafters. My husband has hinted that this building could one day be turned into our home. A modern space between ancient walls. I picture my children running through the yard, as I sit under the tree in the corner against the stone wall reading or writing, perhaps.
My father-in-law once showed me this incredibly old photo album they found in the house when they first moved back into it in the 1970's, after leaving London and then Dublin, where they raised their first four children. The photographs look so dated, they could be in a museum; some of them are labeled, but most were left with no identity except for the unsmiling face of some distant relative. There's some resemblance in a few of the photos and he tells me a story or two to go with each one. I don't even want to touch the book, having this fear that it would simply fall apart once young fingers graze it's aged pages. It thrills me in a new way to look at each captured moment in this stranger's life, and know my children will come about because they existed. My father-in-law barely knows much at all about any of these people and who they were except that he's related to them, as is his son, my husband.
There's such a comfort, deeply rooted from some long ago time, with no words to truly describe it, that flows from that book into my fingers and settles in my blood. It fills me with incredible amounts of pride. I'm a young soul in this old house. I'm the newest member of this family. I'm the start of our role in it's history. I'm a part of this now. Its past now gracefully molding my future.

***
I love driving back into Lahinch at night. Well, I'm not driving, he is. I'm far from being comfortable enough to maneuver a car on the opposite side of the road and as a lazy American, I never did learn how to drive a stick. So I guess I should say, I love riding into Lahinch at night, with my husband behind the wheel and myself, wide-eyed and distracted, watching the countryside open up before us to reveal this small part of Ireland that is now my home. The marmalade glow of lights in distant houses dots the hills, contrasting against the stark silver of each blinking star in the blackest sky I've ever seen. It's amazing how dark the night can be at the edge of the west coast here, with no light pollution to dirty it; nothing but deep and pure black, the absolute absence of any other color. A few times, we've taken nightly walks along the promenade all the way to its end and a little along the rocky cliffs above the shore. This is where it's truly the darkest, and I'll feel this overwhelming sense of how epically small I am, looking into that blackness and seeing star after star after star...a million too many to count. There's nowhere in the world where I've clearly seen so many stars before, that combined with the cold sea air leaves me breathless. The whispering sound of the Atlantic's waves lapping against the sand is deafening in such quiet. I sometimes look so hard into the distant horizon, the dark nothingness that I know leads back to the home I once knew, and wonder what's happening there now, without me. I left behind so much, so many. Life goes on, as they say. But this night sky, this natural quiet passing of time, this man, my husband, his hand in my hand - this is all new and beautiful and what's mine now. I try to remember what I felt before him and here and realize it doesn't matter. There's an ocean and a giant expanse of sky between now and that life, and this life, oh yes, this one - is only just beginning.

Breakfast, Best Friends and Broken Coffee Mugs: A Lesson in Letting Go

If I miss one definite thing about life in Portland, it would be breakfast. It may sound odd, but it truly is a way of life there. Breakfast is when people socialize, it ends up being the most important meal of the day and the most successful restaurants are probably the breakfast spots. When I didn't live on the same side of town as my closest friends, the best way to spend time with them was to meet for breakfast. There was one particular restaurant that we loved more than the others, Jam. And there was one particular friend I'd meet the most, Amanda. She is my longest friend, my most selfless friend, and was the only one I considered to stand next to me on my wedding day. When I think of breakfast in Portland, I think of her the most.

My last full day in Portland of course had to be started with breakfast at Jam and Amanda ended up being the only friend that was able to come with Vinnie and me. We had the same waitress we almost always have when we ate there and she overheard me refer to it as my "last supper." When refilling our coffees, she asked, "Is one of you moving? I thought I overheard you say that." I told her yes, I was moving to Ireland with my new husband the next day and chose Jam for my final breakfast out. I told her it had been my favorite place over the years and I was sad to be leaving. She came back with one of the coffee mugs they sell as merchandise and told me she wanted me to have it, so I wouldn't forget my favorite place and all the memories I made there. I saw Vinnie look disapprovingly at another thing we'd have to fit in our already too-full luggage but it didn't matter. It was one of the most thoughtful things I took with me; a gift from someone I hardly ever talked with except to say good morning and "I'll have coffee with cream" and questions here or there on the specials. It meant so much to me, to know that maybe it wouldn't just be my friends that would notice my absence in this city. I left behind some clothes to make room for that coffee mug in my suitcase. I don't think about those clothes.

Everyday since I've arrived in Ireland, I've had my morning cup of coffee from that mug. It's a bit larger than an average mug, all white with orange flowers and green leaves, and black lettering that says, "Jam on Hawthorne, Cafe and Art house, Portland Oregon." I've been making these amazing hot, milky coffees with cinnamon sprinkled on top, and every time I sit down at the breakfast table to drink that coffee while checking emails and Facebook, I think of sitting across from Amanda. I picture us eating Tommy's Joint - scrambled eggs with fake meat chorizo, salsa and sour cream, wrapped in a sun-dried tomato tortilla. Or maybe I've chosen my favorite - scrambled eggs with avocado and cream cheese, with a side of hash browns and spelt toast served, of course, with Jam's absolutely delicious and homemade, well, jam! (my favorite being their pear chai jam, seriously to die for). We're smothering everything in Aardvark hot sauce and getting as many refills as possible on Stumptown coffee and talking about every little thing that has happened in the days it's been since we last sat down for breakfast. We're both complaining about our waitress jobs, bad customers and bad tips. I miss my Irish boyfriend all the way in Ireland, hers is working the overnight shift and never home at the same time as she is. We're frustrated with roommates or the lack of funds to visit our families in Michigan as often as we'd like. Her car has overheating issues again, my bike got another flat tire. But the sun is out and the weather is gorgeous and we've got plans for the weekend so what is there really to complain about? It's all just normality now, we're far from home, but it's our new home, and we're still together and still best friends.  With each sip of coffee from that Jam mug, I'm brought back to another wonderful breakfast with her. And I don't feel so absolutely far away anymore.

Last night, after a long, freezing day of sitting at an outdoor crafts market with my husband, attempting to sell his T-shirts but not being very successful at it, I was putting our dirty dinner dishes in the sink and ever so lightly tapped that Jam coffee mug and watched it, ever so slowly, teeter back and forth until it fell on it's side, rolled off the counter top, and dropped like the slowest drip of rain down the windowpane before smashing into bits and pieces as it hit the linoleum. I stood there, without moving an inch, except to rush my hands to cover my open mouth. Vinnie's look said it all, he knew what that mug meant to me. He also is fully aware of my attachment to things and their memories, seeing how difficult it was for me to pack my life away to move to Ireland, to choose between one thing and the next, one memory and another. The tears began to flow, much faster than that mug fell. Yes, I am an adult, and I know full well that things aren't memories, that broken mugs aren't the end of my existence in Portland, and that the splattered leftover coffee on my floor is definitely not the hundreds of breakfasts I shared with Amanda. But it was the knowing, the realizing, the pull back to reality that I am far enough away where I can't just get another one, I can't just call Amanda and say, "Hey! I broke that mug! Let's meet at Jam tomorrow so I can get another one, and I'll tell you all about how things are going here so far, and also how I'm such an absolute klutz!" No, I can't do that now. Because I've permanently moved to Ireland. And Amanda is down the street, past the prom, past the beach and the rocks, all the way across the Atlantic and then still beyond the whole of the United States and right before it's far west coast, in Portland. Miles and miles and miles away. The tiny pieces of that coffee mug is the reminder that I am not, and was not, having breakfast with her every morning; they are the uncertainty of not knowing when we will sit down across from each other again, over tofu scrambles and Pacific Northwest brewed coffee.

Maybe soon I'll realize that I don't need that mug to miss her, or think of her. I don't need the old green vase by my bedside or the aprons hanging in my kitchen to miss my Grandma. I don't need the "I love you" rock to miss my brother, or the wedding photo album to miss my sister and I don't need to hear the "i carry your heart song" my other sister wrote for me to walk down the aisle to, to think of her. I definitely don't need the collage of photos to miss all my other friends, or the gorgeous framed print of my parents sitting at the end of my bed to think of them every morning when I wake or every night when I get to lay next to the love of my life. Because I have to remember that is why I am here. I am not here because I left everyone else. I am here because I am with my husband. It was a decision I made freely, one I do not regret. And I know everyone knows that is why I came here, I know they realize that I did not leave them behind.

I just hope they know...I carry your heart, I carry you all in my heart.