Activities this summer are taking on a more profound, urgent sense, like I’m trying to imprint America into my brain before I head overseas. I’ve rowed at sunrise five of the past seven days, biked up the Anacostia Riverwalk Trail with a friend, visited the Hive exhibit at the Smithsonian Building Museum, gone to “The Big Sick” at the new AMC movie theatre, celebrated Denizen Brew Pub’s 3rd anniversary, brunched with a woman I haven’t seen in 20 years, visited Rockland Farms Winery with my husband, and hiked through a blooming sunflower field at McKee-Beshers Wildlife Management Area. It’s like I’ve pushed the “enhance” button on the video of my life to make my experiences sharper, with more vibrant color and emotion, and everyone’s going along with it. These are the days I will remember and yearn for. These are the days that will contrast brightly with my future lifestyle. These are the good old days.

Like the sunflower blooming, I am open to new experiences. Or maybe old experiences felt more profoundly. Like going to church yesterday. The music made me cry. Even with Father Jacek and Father Mike gone, I felt uplifted by the sermon, the singing, and the multicultural community around me. To my left was an African woman who sang loudly off-key and prayed emphatically with a strong French accent. Five gorgeous stair-step children sat to her left and bent their heads, probably in embarrassment. A few years ago I would have been annoyed by her, but yesterday I smiled to myself and held her hand at the Our Father. To my right was a short Latina grandmother who couldn’t hear the cell phone buzzing constantly in her purse. As her family members crowded late into the pew, I got squeezed between the two women. The piano played, the drum beat, we swayed and clapped together, the choir sang in English, French and Spanish and I was moved to tears. I put my head down as if to pray and wiped away the wet stains on my cheeks. The woman sitting behind me gave me a big hug after mass and told me she’d pray for me. We were in a “Find Your Gifts” workshop together two years ago. What is she projecting on to me? The only thing different is that I’m leaving it all behind for a year. So why does that make my feelings so powerful?

It shouldn’t take an international relocation to reboot one’s life. I wasn’t bright enough to figure out exactly what I wanted until I applied for an English Language Teaching Fellowship. I had only a vague sense that I would like to be a stranger again and I followed that feeling. If I had to give anyone advice, here’s what I would recommend: follow your feelings. It turns out that I’ve gotten exactly what I needed. And I haven’t even left home yet.

Here’s a poem that inspired me. I’ve had it on my bulletin board since January 2015 when I saw it in the Inward Outward blog.

For a New Beginning         

In out of the way places of the heart

Where your thoughts never think to wander

This beginning has been quietly forming

Waiting until you were ready to emerge.


For a long time it has watched your desire

Feeling the emptiness grow inside you

Noticing how you willed yourself on

Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.


It watched you play with the seduction of safety

And the grey promises that sameness whispered

Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent

Wondered would you always live like this.


Then the delight, when your courage kindled,

And out you stepped onto new ground,

Your eyes young again with energy and dream

A path of plenitude opening before you.


Though your destination is not clear

You can trust the promise of this opening;

Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning

That is one with your life’s desire.


Awaken your spirit to adventure

Hold nothing back,

Learn to find ease in risk

Soon you will be home in a new rhythm

For your soul senses the world that awaits you.


– John O’Donohue, Bless the Space Between Us

Beginnings and Endings

Beginnings and endings have always been easy for me. As a young child I was constantly on the move. By the time I was 12 years old I had lived in four different states and 10 different houses. According to family lore – aka my older sister – of all my siblings, I was the first to adapt to a new place. When we moved from Southwest Louisiana to upstate New York, I was the first to lose my southern drawl and acquire a new accent. I was the first to give up eating mayonnaise on hotdogs because it repulsed my Yankee friends. My rapid adaptation to a new culture was helped by some modicum of social awareness and the general opinion that I was pretty damn cute. These traits have served me well over the years, and I may need to rely on them again soon.

My older sister has fed the myth of my popularity to all who would listen. She will never let me live this down. During the first week of school in Huntington, West Virginia – where my father had taken a job at Marshall University – I was named to the 7th grade student council while she suffered miserably in gawky adolescent angst. My sister was actively rebelling against the backwardness of her teachers, her classmates’ behind-the-times fashion choices, the poor curriculum, the “run down” school and the entire experience of leaving behind a place she loved. She was 15, awkward, and hated everything about her new environment. Even though I was affected by her negativity, I kept those opinions to myself. I got along with everyone and made true friends. Big Sister left for college three years later and only returned to West Virginia thereafter as a guest. It would be my parents’ last big move, and my and my younger siblings’ home base for the next four-and-a-half decades. My mother still lives in the Victorian house pictured above.

I have completely adapted. When people ask where I’m from, I easily respond “West Virginia,” even though it’s more complicated than that. I spent my formative years in that state and can code switch naturally. After college – West Virginia University, with a gap year in Boston – I moved to Washington DC, then applied to the Peace Corps. I was on my 17th home in 23 years and I wanted to live overseas desperately. What is it about being the newcomer that is so addicting? For years, all I had to do was show up, smile, and try to fit in. People were so nice and accepting. In some back channel of my mind I wanted to re-create that pleasant childhood experience.

In my mid-20’s I spent two years in the Peace Corps in West Africa, where I met my husband. I smiled and he showed up again and again. I was his “vision in white,” and he was my “knight in shining armor.” The fact that we’d met in West Africa meant that I had met my true match in terms of adapting to a new culture. After we married and our children were born, he became Peace Corps Country Director, and we moved back to Africa. I was more than willing to follow him overseas, to become the welcomed newcomer again. When you’re the novice, people have few expectations of you yet, and it’s possible to reinvent yourself while nobody’s paying attention. When we first arrived in West Africa, I still had the robust confidence that comes with youth. I was going to lead literary salons, host international parties, travel, and write a book. Except that I was a “trailing spouse” with two children under the age of five. I quickly learned that I needed more than good looks and wishful thinking to get by.

The year I turned 40 provided a jolting wake up. My social expectations had been shaped by Peace Corps, but I was surrounded by expats who played by different rules. The easy friendships that had always come to me without effort suddenly became tense. It seemed that my husband’s high status position – or maybe the fact that I had young children – changed people’s perceptions of me. Or maybe it was because I became the old-timer and was supposed to lead the way. It was such a struggle to adapt to others’ expectations in West Africa, that I’ve written a 400-page memoir about how difficult that sojourn was. At least one of my youthful dreams has come true.

So why, in 2017, am I seeking the newcomer experience again? On September 1st, I will be moving to Laos, Southeast Asia, for an English Language Teaching Fellowship through the U.S. Department of State. This time, I am going alone, without husband or family. Another new beginning. While I’m excited to start fresh in a new place where my professional experience might allow me to make a big difference, I am nervous that maybe I will not be able to adapt well socially. I will arrive with only one context, one role: Teacher. I will not be “the wife of ~” or “the mother of ~.” That puts more pressure on me to make friends and claim my own extracurricular identity. I think I’m ready.

Some teacher colleagues believe I’m brave and adventurous, but I’m really going back to my roots. I’m trying to recreate that familiar childhood experience of just showing up,  smiling, and expecting the best. I don’t know what the equivalent of eating hotdogs with mayonnaise will be in Laos, but I’m prepared to give up some of my comforts. I’ll be on  the lookout for unfamiliar customs, people, places and language that will shape my Fellowship year. I plan on sharing my impressions via this blog. Even though I’m not so cute any more, I’m good at new beginnings. I hope people will be interested enough in my experience to follow me on this amazing journey. Laos will be my 28th home.