This is my husband, wearing my son’s Halloween costume, raising a frenzy on the busy street in front of our new house in Washington, DC. It’s a fitting metaphor for how I feel about my new identity here in America—a little awkward, silly yet ferocious, not quite getting into the groove, and really just feeling hot and sticky under my new inflatable skin….but getting there.
I just moved across the continent, and across an international border. I hopped from West to East coast and from Canadian to American soil. I moved from Vancouver BC, the playground of the rich and famous, to Washington DC, the workplace of the rich and famous. (At least I kept the “C” for Columbia, and the “rich and famous” part.)
Needless to say, there’s an adjustment.
I miss my friends and coworkers from Vancouver. And my church family. And my family-family. And my foster son. My work in Vancouver was interesting and felt meaningful. We were nestled in several layers of supportive community, and our social calendars were bursting. I don’t think of myself as the sentimental type, but I’m actually starting to get sentimental about it. I’m becoming a bit of a lamenter of “the good ol’ days”.
I had a nightmare the other night. In my dream, Andrew (my husband) was doing his job, MC’ing a service at a mega-church. He performed so badly that people walked out in the middle of the music, before the preacher could even start. Meanwhile, Evan (my son) and Ashley (my daughter) both almost accidentally killed the toddlers that they were babysitting. A laughable and morbid dream, yes. But it startled me awake with a seeping, icky sensation of just pure dread.
I’m obviously manifesting anxiety about the changes.
I’m also feeling guilty because American Julia is introverted Julia. Canadian Julia was extroverted, driven, outpouring. American Julia is shy and withdrawn. I’m afraid that Evan and Ashley and Andrew are going to fail in this fast-paced new American culture. I’m feeling guilty about staying home and taking care of my family instead of jumping into the workforce right away, and I’m wondering if my contributions to the family are enough.
We reasoned this whole transition period out before we moved—I would tie up previous freelance projects, finish some landscaping, fix up the house and figure out the new school/ new healthcare system/ new neighborhood/ new car/ new everything…thing. It’s valuable and necessary in a time of transition. So I ramp up to “work” when my kids come home from school and they need help with their homework and school applications. I know that when I find a job and I start to be at work full-time, I won’t have energy to support them in that way.
But why do I feel like I need to apologize for being me in this new world? Instead of being grateful for the time and space and God’s supply? It must be the achiever in me, who is raring to go and to ramp things up and take on a gazillion save-the-world projects, but is taking a back seat to the pragmatist in me.
The pragmatist in me knows that I need to take it slow. I need to be at peace with the simple fact that establishing new rhythms and routines for a family is hard work. There’s a slow consolidation that needs to happen, and it can’t happen quickly because nothing quick can undo 17 years of living in one city, in one house.
So the pragmatist and the achiever are at war. We’ll refrain from tying this one up with trite conclusions. Let’s just say I’m learning to be gentle with myself, as Christ has always been with me.
I just spent the morning planting fall bulbs. They won’t flower until next Spring. In the meantime, they lie dormant and still. Over the months, they’ll send out baby feelers and cling to their new soil, their new homes, and eventually I know they will poke their heads out over the mulch and topsoil that I’ve just scattered over them. But it’s a process. Can’t be rushed.