Why Denmark?

It's a question I've been hearing a lot these days.

I'm not sure why it's repeated so often lately. Perhaps it's because some months have passed since I first made the decision to uproot my life and move to this faraway island nation. I had big dreams, big plans, a planned schedule for everything from learning the language to finding a job, marrying my fiance, and getting my kids here.

None of it has gone to plan. None of it.

So, after nearly a year of traveling back and forth between my life here and the remnants of my life in the states, I am also asking myself: why Denmark? Why this place instead of staying closer to the life I knew?

I have no simple answer.

It was the same question I heard when I decided to adopt my children from China those many years ago. Why China? Didn't I realize there were babies geographically closer that needed homes? Why? It's so far away, so different, so expensive, so not here, so not the same as what we know.

When people asked back then, I stated the only answer I knew. "My daughter (and three years later, my son), the child meant for me, is in China."

I can't say the same for why I came to Denmark. In fact, I left my kids in the U.S. with promises of getting them here as quickly as possible. A year later they are still waiting. Well, not really waiting. They have decided they will be finishing high school in the states, and visiting me on school breaks. It was an inevitable compromise given Alabama state laws, an uncooperative ex-husband, a lengthy settling-in process, and unproductive job search. It was inevitable; I just hadn't seen it at first.

So, why Denmark?

I moved to Denmark because I had fallen irretrievably in love with someone I believe is meant to be my forever companion. Yet, as beautiful and romantic as that statement is, such a decision comes at great cost. It is a cost measured in moments of deep frustration, terrible loneliness, and self recrimination that leave you questioning why such a risk could have been worth it. Why, when so many others live fulfilling, happy lives in roughly the same circumstances as I had before leaping into this far flung alternate reality. Why should I have taken such a chance?

It's not a simple answer. Especially when I alone must answer it, even when I have my own doubts.

Initially, I looked to my partner to provide reassurance that the decision would work out in the end, or at least made sense for me. But like jumping into a rushing river, life does not often stand still long enough to collect our thoughts about such a meaningful decisions after the fact. There is too much daily work to be done, meals to be made, projects to be completed, businesses to build, kids to be grown, trips to be planned, bills to be paid. Suddenly, this strange new alternate life just becomes...life.

My circumstance. My reality. My choice.

Becomes.

Our circumstance. Our reality. Our choices.

If we choose to see it that way.

What we set out to do is not always what happens. When I traveled to China fourteen years ago, I didn't envision the last high school years of my children would be spent living a split reality between the United States and Denmark. But I did know I would love my children forever, no matter our circumstances. That fact will never change.

Denmark feels like home now. But more than that, this life feels like home now. I long for my children daily, but even this sense of apart-ness has gained a sense of normal. When I consider the long term reality of who they are and who we all are together, I am reassured that we will all be okay. My partner, Glenn, and I just returned from a trip to spend Fall Break with them. Apart from my joy of just being around them for some uninterrupted days, I was able to observe my son and daughter as the incredible human beings they are, and will continue to be throughout their lives.

One evening, while playing a game of Monopoly, something set the four of us to laughing. I was laughing so hard, my son was getting exasperated, trying to get me back to the game. As George scolded me that I needed to focus, it felt like he had become the wizened adult and I was the vexing child.

I looked at Glenn, and said, "you know, this is what they'll be like when they visit us in the nursing home." We laughed at the comedic image. But it also gave me comfort, because it reminded me that we have many, many years ahead of us on this journey. To grieve too much for time apart only lessens the joy when we are together.

So, why Denmark? Because it is home, a home for not only our present but for our future, whatever form that takes. It was and still is worth every risk to be here. Things continue to settle, and we are still working our way toward the goals we have before us, but so is everybody in this life. We aren't there yet, but you never know what surprises might already be on their way.

Alabama, Fall Break 2017

The In Between

When I was in seventh grade, I read the series Dragonriders of Pern by Anne McCaffrey, and was instantly mesmerized by these fantasy novels that took place in a world where humans and dragons coexisted interdependently. As part of the fantastical world created by McCaffrey, humans and their dragon counterparts were inseparable, the dragon having imprinted upon their human shortly after hatching. The bond it formed with its human resulted in an emotionally conjoined duo, virtually inseparable until death.

McCaffrey's writing sparked my imagination, and resulted in writing my own series of fantasy adventures that (thankfully) were long ago discarded with other failed writing endeavors.

The element I found most intriguing about the Dragonriders of Pern and one that I have continued to ponder from time to time in the ensuing years, was the dragon's ability to take it's human in between. That is, the dragon, being a mystical creature, had the ability to move through time and space, traveling from one place to another instantaneously by blinking into the space in between the layers of visible physical existence.

To an observer, the dragon and rider would disappear momentarily, then reappear some distance away, or, if necessary, back into the same location. It would appear a fairly innocuous exit and entrance, happening in the blink of an eye. But to the dragon and rider, the experience was wholly different.

Once disappeared, they would suddenly be flying within a cold tear in space, determining reentry calculations and staving off intensely bitter cold.

It made for some glorious battle sequences.

It also provided me with an understanding that we, too, have our in between.

Ours may be absent of dragons, but it most definitely exists. It is the place between the sequence of our life events to which the world bears witness. It is the place where the strategy of life's battles is actually determined. It is the place where risk is weighed, where decisions are made, and where the calm mind can realistically discern want from need and false hopes from realistic expectations, difficult choices that too often aggravate the forefront of our consciousness relentlessly.

It is often a cold place. A place where we feel most alone.

The most fortunate among us have a partner to keep us warm against the driving cold, to help us in our strategic planning, and to help prepare our reentry into the raging battle.  Still, there is always the possibility our best strategy falls short. Or we are ill-prepared once we appear in the skies circling the battlefield. Or perhaps we arrive prepared, but the rules have changed and we no longer have the advantage.

So we retreat again. But not for long, because spend too much time in between and we freeze to death. We have to keep reemerging, not only for our own survival, but for those dependent upon us.

Yet, it is only the moments of appearing and disappearing which most people witness. Others often know nothing of our existence in between, where we are tired and unsure of what comes next, fearing what will be revealed as we make entry.

This is partly because we dragon riders have our pride, and want the world to witness only the best moments of our glorious battles. But from time to time, we falter in our resolve.

April 5 was one such day for me. It was the day I miscarried at nine weeks.

I had never been pregnant. I am at an age where most of my peers are either having grandchildren or are planning for them in the not so distant future. My beautiful kids, now 13 and 14, were adopted from China as infants.

To suddenly be pregnant was completely unexpected, and worrisome, and an idea that filled me with intense hope, and desire to have a baby again, regardless how impractical the idea. It helped that the man whose blueberry seed I was carrying is the love of my life, and he seemed to take it in stride. We're probably too old, but we will have a beautiful baby.

Knowing the odds were against making it through the first trimester, it shouldn't have been a surprise when we lost it. But that didn't stop my heart from fully breaking when it happened.

I felt myself slipping in between.

Glenn held me while I cried through that first night, and again when spontaneous bouts of tears and sadness would surface in the days that followed. His calm and strength never failed to reassure that we were in it together, and that I would never be alone.

His timing was also impeccable in knowing when the sadness needed airing. He took me for walks on the nearby castle grounds where we are to be married in an ancient chapel, made me laugh hard over ridiculous jokes, and always reminded me that there is too much good in this world to be sad over things that cannot be changed. He quelled my doubts that said I had failed.

He was my dragon determining my readiness for reentry into the battle.

Soon enough the pain became a soft memory completely overshadowed by my depth of good fortune. I came away knowing that having a partner so capable, and so fiercely protective of me in my sadness was worth any number of misfortunes. Equal parts of the same soul, we again faced life eternally bonded warrior-brothers, once again ready for battle.

It's a good feeling, knowing your partner always has your back. Because whatever comes our way, we will face it together.

Løvenborg Slot, April 2017

The Wrong Movie

The future of our world is changing. Or was already changed, and nobody noticed until now.

Perhaps we were all too busy staring at Facebook, or watching The Walking Dead, or generally sinking further and further into the social malaise that Neil Postman warned us about in Amusing Ourselves to Death which contrasts dystopian visions put forth by George Orwell and Aldous Huxley as dawning and intertwined realities in North American culture.

Inauguration Day 2017.

Time to wake up.

Suddenly the world was transforming into something...different. Our collective reality had suddenly shifted onto a trajectory that, until that moment was...unexpected.

The right words didn't come at first.

I found myself fumbling for appropriate description of the emotional impact the event had upon me. The victory was...strange. Somehow...counterfeit.

An alternate setting that should never have been realized.

Even Trump supporters seemed a bit dismayed when it actually happened. It was something from a reality TV show, a fictional Netflix series, a metaphorical advisory against the hubris of humankind. For the briefest of moments, even they hesitated to accept what had just been laid at their feet.

For my part, I had to sit with it for awhile. I had to consider what it might actually mean. It helps that I have the privilege of observing from a comfortable distance. Having moved to Denmark in mid-December provides breathing room to observe my beloved country as it struggles for traction within its self imposed asylum.

Truthfully, it pains me to watch, to listen, to be grilled with questions from outsiders about the status of the collective North American mindset that gave birth, either through complacency or overt approval, to this new era of xenophobic intolerance, sexism, and opportunistic malice. Whether or not this movement gains momentum beyond the boisterous few is irrelevant; what matters is that it can happen at all. In any country. In my country.

To assuage my misgivings about the state of affairs at home, I regularly seek those historical figures who best understood the dangers of politicians and government gaining too much control over our daily life.

I revisit the classic science fiction writers.

Listening to the discourse of every pundit, newscaster, and political affiliate railing for or against this new era does little to ease my mind. But give me an hour with 1984 or Fahrenheit 451, and suddenly things become quite clear.

These authors knew.

Either instinctively or through observation, Orwell and Huxley and Ray Bradbury and Arthur C. Clarke understood the way human groups interact. They understood how human groups consider each other. Layer on top of that the intent of government to control it's populations either through force or comfort or something in between, and the trajectory of our social construct was set. They simply noticed before anyone else.

Like the incarnate goddess Maat weighing the human heart upon the divine scale to determine its worth, these writers assessed the collective human pysche.

Sadly, they found it wanting.

They surmised that if humans could use social constructs and technology to observe and control under the auspice of protecting ourselves and each other, or protecting ourselves from each other, then we most certainly would. Fictional technologies written into their dystopian texts simply fulfilled that purpose.

The fact that we have since created similar technologies is no coincidence.

Because technologies may change, but humans never will.

The only thing that changes is which group takes their turn at creating havoc and imbalance within the human commune.

Who is the current conglomerate of humans to fracture the otherwise peaceful assemblage of individuals going about their daily lives? Who will be the next champions of terrorism, enslavement, genocide, brutal and vicious acts both collectively and individually? Why does the scale tip in favor of one or the other group, from time to time, historically?

The catalyst is simply... fear.

Because if we don't do it to them, they will surely do it to us.

Or not

But why take the chance?

Because the alternative means we have to stand in a constant state of passivity toward the transgressions that will surely be leveraged against us.

Or not.

It's best to seek balance. No one expects a person to not fight back when attacked physically, or threatened with harm, or when loved ones are in danger.

Evil walks; it finds its feet among humans.

But only if we allow it.

It's why World War II stands apart from other global conflicts. It was a noble fight. The center of that fight, the meaning of it was literally ordinary men and women standing against a very real onslaught of evil that had ensnared billions in its wake.

The smarmy political and government agendas that seek to exaggerate our differences and cast fear among us are merely wordplay.

For or against.

Us versus them.

Greatness is not achieved by demeaning others or through exclusion. Indeed, greatness diminishes in direct relation to the measure of our conceit.

After all, making mistakes might be the most consistent state of human existence, but accepting our failings, making amends, and seeking redemption is by far the most sacred.

Sunrise or sunset...January 2017

Careful What You Wish For

It is snowing today.

I am at the kitchen table staring out the window of our home in Løvenborg, Denmark. 

I am wondering why I am here.

Don't misunderstand. I made the right choice in coming here. I came here with a clear vision, a belief. I came here with faith in a person and situation that I had never before felt.

But reality is a hard taskmaster. What I thought was going to happen, or at least how it was going to happen, seems to be drifting further from my grasp. 

Where I felt hope, I now fear failure. Where I felt momentum, I feel only inertia. Where I felt a beautiful and amazing new adventure lifting my soul, I feel ill-equipped to do what is required of me to attain the very thing I came here to do: create a successful new life with my partner and our children.

It doesn't help that much of my old life is still packed in boxes, delivered in a crate from the US, and waiting patiently for me to again focus my energies.

Who knew that finalizing a divorce, moving to another country, being temporarily apart from my kids and permanently apart from family and friends, forfeiting all familiar domain over my life, all the while trying to adjust to a new culture, the rhythm of a new family life, learn a new language, and essentially start over in every true sense of the word, would result in feelings of depression, anxiety, and general disillusionment?

Okay, well some might have suspected.

Not me. I'm a romantic. I was too busy working the details of the transition, and taking care of everyone else to think much about the emotional ramifications on my own psyche. 

I know this struggle to gain traction is inevitable given the breadth of this life change. It is the logical backwash from the frantic push of effort that got me here within a relatively short period of time. Now the initial goal is achieved and the rush of  psychological adrenaline is dispersing, and I am left feeling what's next.

So, what is next?

I am once again standing quite clearly on the moment when before meets after. When the mountain I am about to climb is daunting enough to actually make retreating into the valley a consideration. Yet, as I look back over these months of effort that got me here, I think...perhaps I just needed a rest.

I haven't lost hope, and this might be my truest measure of success. Because if I haven't lost hope, then I haven't lost faith.

If we have faith in ourselves and in each other, then we can do anything.

So, maybe it's time to unpack more boxes.

Løvenborg Castle, February 2017

Word Blind

They say learning language is to use the same brain function as learning music.

We listen to a song, without knowing the words. Then we sing the words without really hearing the meaning. Then we begin to understand the meaning, but are unable to sing the song unless it is playing along on the radio.

Eventually, the song comes to us and we are able to sing it aloud, on our own, when the music isn't playing.

That's the theory.

The problem is the entire process of being "word blind," whether learning a language through immersion or struggling with learning disabilities has an overwhelming feeling of isolation. While admittedly the emotional separation can sometimes be self-imposed, there are moments enough when the isolation is real.

The language barrier can be an actual barrier. Any anthropologist will tell you that language defines our world view. It also defines our social mores, boundaries, cultural conversation, and general interaction between human beings who share knowledge of a given language.

One of my favorite observations about communication is from author Kevin Powers (The Yellow Birds). To paraphrase, what is thought is never quite what is said, and what is said is never quite what is heard. Even more so when two or more language barriers are involved.

The person who doesn't speak the dominant language is suddenly dependent on others to relate, interpret, and define a process that typically belongs to the individual alone. It's frustrating for all involved because our thoughts should be our own. Independent.

Even in the most committed relationship, the level of trust is challenged when we are forced to give over those processes for the sake of someone else's understanding.

So how do we break through? How to come to a place of understanding? Obviously, people do it every day. My son, and countless adopted children, transitioned from his birth language to English. My partner is fluent in seven languages. His son struggles with dyslexia, but is verbally fluent in three languages. These are just the people close to me. Life throughout this world is a constant journey of words and language, in myriad variations.

Yet, the process can be a bit like looking through a darkened window, trying to glean bits of starlight in the form of recognizable words. It's an unusual sensation for the independent minded, this listening too much. Constantly assessing conversations as puzzles to be decoded.

Casual conversation is a distant memory. Either I am all in, or completely disengaged. Finding the rhythm of a conversation is a constant act of contrition.

Sorry, I didn't catch that.
Sorry, what did she say?
Sorry, I don't know what that means.
Sorry, I am not understanding.
Sorry. Just sorry. Because I suddenly feel like I am drowning in words I don't understand, may never understand, want more than anything else to understand.

Until a moment comes, and suddenly there it is.

I catch one. Like a snowflake drifting into the palm of my hand; a butterfly landing upon the tip of my finger. An instant of clarity occurs, and I understand what was said.

Then I feel renewed, and filled with hope that maybe, just maybe, learning Danish is not beyond me.

My son, Georgie,
transitioned from Mandarin to English at age 4.

My bonus son, William,
struggles with dyslexia but is verbally fluent in 3 languages. 

Animal Magnetism

I am a horrible mother.

I was told this recently by someone I have considered a friend.

Maybe it wasn't said directly. But the meaning was obvious in the layered questions directed at my recent life choices, and in the individual's exaggerated concern about my children's well-being suddenly having great personal importance to them.

It's something I've heard implied several times since I ended my 16 year marriage.

While being married to a narcissist taught me to deal (reluctantly) with the push of criticism directed at the most vulnerable parts of my psyche, it doesn't lessen the sting. 

For me, I am most vulnerable about my kids, and whether or not I am doing a good job raising them. Am I giving them what they need to grow and thrive? Am I finding the balance between protecting their tender souls and letting them explore a world of ideas and adventures without fear? Am I helping them to understand that the world may be cold, but we find warmth in each other: in family, in friendships, in real love. Am I helping them to become who they want to be, are meant to be, deserve to be?

In young adulthood, I did not want children of my own. Dogs were enough. Books and travel were enough. Life was enough. But nearing my thirtieth birthday, I became aware that I carried a hole in my heart that could only be filled through motherhood.

My ache was not to become pregnant. As the poet Kahlil Gibran eloquently states, a child does not come from us, but through us. My children were somewhere else on the planet, and it became my all-consuming quest to find them. The invisible red thread drawing me ever closer.

From then until now, I have never stopped being a mom fully committed to the well-being of my kids. My current circumstance is no exception. Days or weeks apart does not lessen our bond. At worst, it is an annoying change in routines. At best, it is the process necessary to build a wonderful and amazing life together in a new place.

I do not leave them vulnerable and afraid. They are strong and capable, and joyous and smart. They have their father, and friends and family to take up where needed. 

A marriage ending is not always a tragedy. A mother bringing her children into a different life filled with emotional positives, cultural opportunities, and amazing adventures is not something to be disdained. Especially when the foundation of that life is a loving home, filled with shared respect, understanding, and mutual emotional support. 

In the end, there are only two people whose opinions truly matters. So far, they're good with all of it. 

Maybe their ease with my decision speaks to the strength of our bond. Maybe it speaks to the willingness of their hearts to choose love over fear. Maybe it's simply because my kids are remarkable, and the lives they have lived have never been typical or small.

Sun N' Fun Lakeland, FL- April 2008

Gracie, 5yrs - Georgie, 4yrs

Before birth they knew scarcity. At birth they knew abandonment, followed by raw hope when they were rescued. As toddlers, they learned the meaning of salvation.

So did I.

When I held each of them for the first time, I understood my purpose on this earth. They have me unconditionally.

My kids learned young that for every misery, there is equal part joy if we are willing to accept it or sometimes seek it out. Gaining something new does not necessarily mean we lose what came before. We carry all we are and ever have been within us. 

Circumstance changes. Real love remains.

This is what we three have taught each other.

All I Have

Life is not random. 

With clarity, we become aware that the threads of destiny have been woven through every moment leading to our current circumstance. We look back over the sometimes tumultuous, sometimes pristine landscape of our lives, and it is poignantly evident that every choice, every circumstance, for better or for worse, has led to this moment.

Purpose is subjective yet eternal.

It is an unremarkable conclusion, until we consider that if this is the case, within every circumstance we believed to be making a decision of our own volition, we were actually acting less on cogent thought and more on instinct. Like the salmon returning to their spawning grounds, we too are seeking the elusive yet tangible completion to our purpose. There will be many casualties in our quest, and if we survive to see it to completion, we will arrive bruised and exhausted.

The risks may outweigh the advantages, but taking the risk often holds the sweetest reward. It is a walk of faith to hear the purpose of our lives, a purpose that others may or may not understand. But our happiness should never be based on the expectations of others, To live fully, we must find our own meaning, our own life's rhythm. Most importantly, we must find our own joy.

There is always hope.

To live someone else's version of our life, at the expense of our own contentment, is no life at all. Love is not a prison. It is the ultimate freedom to be the best version of ourselves.

There is a time to fear and a time to ignore the uncertainty that creeps into our minds uninvited. Each of us must learn to decipher our own internal language, particularly when it is in conflict with the world around us, or with those in closest proximity to our lives.

When we are overjoyed with the possibility of life, that is often when others challenge us most heavily on the reasonableness of our decision. That's when we begin to doubt. We ask ourselves: why didn't I leave sooner, choose better, give less, wait longer?

But the answer is unknowable except in one regard. If we had done any of those things, hesitated a little longer or moved forward just a little quicker, explored a side road a moment deeper, lingered in a tomorrow that could only become an empty yesterday, then this perfectly serendipitous here and now would have been missed entirely.

Destiny is fluid, but meaning is constant.

Life is not random, but it is baffling in its complexity. 

More so that even in our most unseeing moments, we were actually listening to that still, small voice that led us to this moment. We never lost hope, even when we told ourselves we had.

Kronborg Castle, October 2016