Crossing to Safety

I remember the day the movers came to our house in New York. I opened the door with a smile. There were four or five guys dressed in matching red shirts standing on my front porch. I've moved probably 25 times in my life, but until that day, I'd never had professional movers do the job. I marveled at the idea that they'd just swoop into my house and pack everything up  and make things so swift and easy for us.

The first thing I said to the moving foreman, after he'd introduced himself to me, was, "Well, hello! I'm excited you're here. I've never moved internationally before, so I don't quite know what I need."

I keep thinking of that moment. I've thought of it a thousand times since, because it was just so darn true. You don't know what you don't know, and so--what can you do? You move forward, a bit blindly, trusting that it's going to ultimately be ok but knowing that you'll make some mistakes too.

We made lots of simple mistakes, like, packing up things like lamps and appliances that we should have just sold or donated because the electrical current here is different than the US.

There were bigger mistakes. I didn't realize on that July morning the things that would matter most to me and to our children over the course of what turned out to be eight very long months that we were without our things. When you have all the stuff that is yours right with you, it doesn't feel as vital or as necessary as it really is; you don't realize, quite (or at least I didn't) what the things are that make the house where you live a home, because it's the amalgamation of all those things and the very take-for-granted familiarity of them that makes you feel comfortable and at ease in a place. You don't know really, how much they mean, until they are gone.

If I could go back to that July afternoon, I would have done things differently.  I would have kept some things back, like Asher's favorite stuffed animal, a yellow snake named (appropriately enough) "Snakey" and I would have yielded over Lillian's insistence that all her beloved Beanie Boos needed a suitcase of their own to come with us on the long journey that was ahead. I would have kept out beloved blankets and certain pillows, maybe even a favorite cooking pan or two.

As the weeks stretched into months and we were without all of these things, lines from Robert Frost's "I Could Give All To Time"  repeatedly came to my mind as we all experienced incredible, tsunami like waves of homesickness:

"I could give all to Time except--except
What I myself have held. But why declare 
The things forbidden that while the Customs slept 
I have crossed to Safety with? For I am There
And what I would not part with I have kept."

And yet, instead of holding on to those things, I had those movers pack it all up on that sunny July afternoon, insisting that we didn't need "things" to define us, that decluttering was good, and that we would see all of things "things" again in no time flat. I couldn't fathom in July that it would be March before we saw them again. I didn't understand then how one needs certain "things forbidden" in order to "cross to Safety."  I didn't know that having with us a few more of the things that we loved (without even knowing we loved them) would make the journey ahead easier. I couldn't foresee the moments, dozens of them, when I wiped away tears from horribly homesick little ones who wished they had something to hold on to when nothing around them felt known or familiar.

In fact, for many months I wondered what was wrong with us, why we missed our stuff so much, when it was just stuff. I've been reading lately a book called Third Culture Kids that is designed to help parents  help navigate their children successfully through an extended experiencing living away from their country and culture of origin.  The author explains one central problem that most Third Culture Kids (TCKs) experience: "because of the very nature of international living, TCKs generally go through chronic cycles of separation and loss far more often than the population at large." He asserts the need for them to have things that connect them to their past and their feeling of security.

Lillian at the Shangri La on the day we found her favorite plush toy that had been accidentally lost by the cleaning staff. It was much more than a toy to her--it was an anchor that was helping her feel safe and secure. 

Hence, one day when Asher threw a fit because he couldn't find the large, heavy fur-like blankets that we used in New York almost daily, I realized the tears weren't about needing a blanket (it was 100 degrees outside), but more grieving a life that he'd left behind. As I held him in my arms and let him cry, I told him that I understood that he missed curling up on the brown couch in the basement with those blankets, surrounded in warmth while the snow storms raged outside; that the blanket made him feel safe in a world that he knew well. I could see by his expression that was exactly why he cried, and as we together acknowledged the grief that comes from missing that familiarity, he was able to let it go and move on.

These are the kind of lessons, so unexpected and unpredictable, that I've been learning. I'll end this post with the very happy news that one glorious day in March, almost 8 months to the day since those movers first packed everything up, a giant truck came down my street and a new team of movers knocked on my door. I literally did a happy dance when I saw the truck come down the street and I ran out to meet it, clapping and whooping for joy. The new team of movers unloaded all our things. Taking each item out of its box was better than Christmas. Our family celebrated all day long. And when it all was finally unpacked and put in its new place, Asher walked from room to room with a smile and said, "Mom, Singapore finally feels like home."