Homesickness rolls in and out like clouds across the horizon, dimming the view momentarily, darkening the house, triggered by forces I’m not conscious of. Like a fast-moving storm, the change in atmosphere catches me off guard.

Sometimes homesickness is born of frustration because I miss something concrete and practical, like the abundance of closets, cabinets, and outlets in my house in America . Or I’ll miss a luxury like my Jacuzzi, which I pine for every night the way a teenager does for her first love. Sometimes it originates deep inside, drawn from a memory of a moment or season in Virginia—the warm mornings on the deck, the children digging ponds in the dirt, the sound of cicadas and crickets, the sweet smell of honeysuckle, the ghostly sight of the moonflowers opening on the fence at night, the earthy scent of the lake.

There are days when I long for the 24/7 convenience of the American retail landscape and my confidence in navigating all the choices it offers. I miss shopping in all its permutations—knowing the brands, the stores, the best time and place to buy. I don’t like to shop here at all because it reminds me of how lost I am.

There are items I sent into storage before we moved that I wish I had with me now, not for practical reasons but emotional ones—photographs, stuffed animals, the decorative plates that sat on my dresser—little things that triggered happy memories.

I miss every word in the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer Sunday service and the creaky floors, red carpet, and stained glass windows of St. John’s . Church here is a lovely stylish shoe that doesn’t fit. It’s not comfortable and I find excuses to slip out of it.

And perhaps most of all I miss my girlfriends, the laughter and support we offered each other and the experiences we shared. Complaining about housework, jobs and our families, dissecting our children’s behavior and their schools, sharing our accomplishments, joking at our own expense--it made us all feel better to know everyone occasionally sags under the load of their responsibilities. We reminded one another of the amazing things we accomplished every day. We learned to laugh at our failures and celebrate our milestones. Now I feel a bit like an adolescent, worried about finding my own place in the social landscape, fitting in without selling out, saying the right thing.

The worst and best part of my overseas experience is a sense of being unmoored and untethered. It’s been liberating to truly start over in a new culture but unnerving too. I know that having left America behind, I can’t go back and see it the way I once did. I can move back into my house in Virginia but not back into my old life. One day I will miss Belgium--the bread store we walk to on Sunday mornings, the winding tree-lined trails of the parks near our house, the cool summers, the old brick buildings and architecture, our favorite restaurants, all the gardens, the cobblestone streets, my life without a car.

Virginia will never feel the same to me—but I’ll hang on to it, much like a favorite pair of jeans that no longer quite fits but that I can’t bear to part with. Part of my history, part of my dreams, the substance of who I am and long to be.

September 13, 2005