Home is wherever you are or Advice for those relocating

I was four years old when I got on my first plane. That fateful ride took me from my birth country to another continent and set me on my journey as someone more at home on the move than in any one specific place. In the late 1970s, moving from Asia to North America was a feat for our family of four and looking back I’m amazed at all that my mother managed to do for us in our first of many homes abroad, despite being an sheltered and inexperienced traveler in her twenties. That first move at four was repeated at ages nine, twelve, thirteen, each time my father’s professional interests throwing the three of us – my mother, brother, and me – to our own resources as we created a ‘home’ in each of the new places we found ourselves.
 
Perhaps this is why others marvel at how quickly I set up my own homes, also in a series of moves from age seventeen to college, twenty two for further graduate study, twenty four for professional pursuits, and most recently at twenty six to Qatar.
 
Although the locations have varied, the elements I use to make myself feel at home have stayed the same. Here are some suggestions:
 
A few key photos filled my suitcase when I arrived in Doha as I waited for other items to arrive by air freight. The first night in my marble floored and echoing apartment, I put up photos and souvenir magnets on the refrigerator, framed favorite family moments in the living room and bedroom. I felt better when I went to bed and was surprised when my colleagues exclaimed how cozy and personalized my apartment (which looked exactly like theirs in layout and furnishings) felt during our first week in country. It seemed homesickness was chasing us all and the bright smiles of my loved ones helped ease the sense of distance.
 
My first trip to a grocery store in Qatar was with a group of colleagues, as we were using group transportation while waiting for our driver’s licenses. While others piled back into the van with bags full of cold cuts, meat, and bread, I clambered on with an armful of white lilies, causing everyone to chuckle. We had been feasting at local restaurants all week and food had been the furthest thing from my mind as I wandered the aisles of the Carrefour. Instead, I found my way to the flower stand and remembered how the scent of Easter lilies could make any dull afternoon seem bearable. I bought a few strands and met the van. Flowers – either fresh cut or as potted plants – can soften the often sterile feeling in many new spaces.
 
Music is another element to tuck away in a pocket of a suitcase when relocating. A small CD case of ten or so favorite albums can make any new space seem familiar as it fills up with the nostalgic notes of your current favorite artist.
 

Anger ruins a night at the opera

Amazingly, last night I was confronted with the anger of strangers, and had the desperate urge to laugh! I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been focusing on letting go of anger and taking those intervening breaths (I cannot stress how crucial those are) or if I was just satiated from a good meal and catching up with a friend, but as we climbed over the knees of people not wanting to move to let my friend and I slide across a crowded row to our seats. The main act – Placido Domingo – hadn’t started. The lights weren’t low. The orchestra was warming up.But the looks these people gave us could have stripped us bare for daring to disturb their peaceful mintues before the start of the performance.

So instead of returning their gargoyle like stares, I giggled all the way to my seat.

Placido and a young soprano – Ailyn Perez – were fantastic and generous with their encore performancs.

But after the show, a strange thing happened.

The staircase closest to our section, the nearest exit, was closed off by a group of teenage ushers. They had clearly been instructed by someone else, for some unknown reason, to keep us from exiting in the most expedient fashion. In light of the 500+ people crowding the theater, many people were notably angered by this inexplicable barricade. I saw grown men harass these teenage girls as though they were committing one of the most henious crimes of the year.

“Can I speak to your boss?” one man was insisting, “It’s going to take me at least 20 minutes to get out of here if you don’t let me out this way.”

Now, I’m not saying that I wasn’t worried about how long it was going to take me to get out of the parking lot. Or that my friend and I hadn’t considered ducking out during one of the many encores, so as to avoid the traffic. We stayed instead and tried to just enjoy the evening and let the traffic take care of itself.

When I saw the rage in the face of this man, and a few others bunched up around these teenage girls, one of who was pleading:

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” I saw the destructive power of rage and its impotence.

We moved another set of chairs and proceeded directly down the tiered seating until we finally got to the floor and slipped out the door. Amazingly, the parking lot attendants were directing people in a sensible fashion and we made it off the island (man made PEARL project in Qatar: http://www.thepearlofthegulf.com/SubTemplate1.aspx?ID=166&MID=86) in about fifteen minutes. We marveled that we got off the island more quickly than it had taken us to get on.

And we left the opera with sounds of Placido and Ailyn in our ears: not the steaming fury of impotent rage.

Here’s one more reason for restraint.

This year for Lent I will give up

Angry outbursts. 

The Lentan season is a time to turn inward (like the Muslim season of Ramadan) and focus on those things that keep you from being the person you could be. Lent is the Christian invitation to focus on what saps our energy and attention from God.

Typically, people will ‘give up’ something – often something they love – chocolate, or soda, or a particular kind of distraction such as television or the radio, in order to be willingly humbled each moment in the day when you have a desire for that particular taste, object, or activity. 

In the past I’ve given up meat, Tositios, regular Coke, and a whole list of tangible items. This year’s decision came as a surprise even to me on the heels of the observations of a visiting friend. As I was taking her around town, I would give her the emotional history of my relationship with particular individuals.

“She used to hate me,” I’d say after we’d met someone in the hallway, “but then we became friends.”

“He hates me,” I would say and shrug as we left someone’s office.

“Do they hate you?” She asked me, startling me one afternoon when I was explaining something about a local group. Her use of my own phrase helped me hear myself and the casual way I was describing serious issues.

The upside to this discussion is that it helped me realize how much I relish the angry emotions: rage, hate, burning anger, bodering on malice. I realize how I’ve been holding the strong burn of anger close, almost as a friend, using it as a crutch for coping with the demands of living overseas (or just the bumps of life in general).

 So, for the next forty days, until Easter (the end of March), I will give up the luxury of being furious. 

What will I do with my energy in the meantime? 

Stay tuned and find out.