Compost Studios

One of the most unsettling and yet liberating aspects of being an expatriate is abandoning all the familiarity and comfort of your former life and completely starting over. In our home countries, we build our lives bit by bit, framed by our families, our jobs, our communities, hobbies, volunteer work, and friends. Life takes on a life of its own as our schedules predictably fill with the same activities week after week, month after month, year after year.

And then one day one decides (or is required) to move overseas. Before the move, the calendar becomes crammed with doctor appointments, home maintenance tasks, visits with loved ones, last minute shopping, deadlines for filing paperwork, insurance and banking issues, an international hunt for housing, dates for shipping the car, packing up, and moving out.

In my case, life became a blur, emotions ran high, anxiety and excitement simmered beneath the surface, and the overwhelming desire to “just get it over with” kicked in. Getting on the plane was a relief. Finally, no more preparing for a new life, now it was time to begin living it. In a sense, I thought the most difficult part of moving was behind me.

But shortly after arriving in March and handling a number of administrative tasks on this end, life fell into a pattern for my husband and children. He had a job to report to, my children had school, they all had a schedule and a built-in network of friends and associates. I had a BLANK calendar.

I didn’t know whether to be exhilarated or terrified. No job, no appointments, no volunteer commitments, no social gatherings, no church to attend, no vacations planned, no visits expected, no school sports or extracurricular activities to manage, and oh God, the worst of all—months without Internet access at home to connect me to the world outside. Suddenly I had time on my hands. Lots of time.

That spring, my days stretched before me with equal doses of loneliness and possibility. There were places to see and explore--everything was fresh and every experience a bit of an adventure. But the flip side of that was that nothing was uncomplicated, and sometimes I longed to be able to carry out the simple transactions of life without laboriously researching, planning and second-guessing my every move. Life was full of surprises, but not all of them were good.

I loved reading, people-watching, walking in the city, visiting restaurants, studying life around me. However, there were moments when I tired of being an observer but was uncertain how to be a participant. Just as I’d jettisoned loads of extraneous belongings and considered what to take with me to Belgium, I also had vowed to pack away some of the activities, expectations, and habits I’d been living with in the U.S. and make way for something new. But what?

There were women’s clubs and school associations eager for me to join. There were calls to volunteer in a number of positions and organizations. There were job possibilities, exercise classes, church groups, and classes all demanding my consideration. Despite episodes of loneliness or boredom, I refused to jump blindly into activity for activity’s sake. I kept asking myself, “What do I really want to do?” This seemed like a simple question, which may explain why not being able to answer it immediately left me feeling uncomfortable.

The children’s summer holiday was upon me before I had to time to reach any conclusions, and my days were overtaken with caring for and entertaining them. There was little time for exploring on my own or making friends. Time stood still. I felt stuck.

As August wore on and the children’s summer holiday seemed about three weeks too long, I found my mind returning over and over again to pursuing my life long passion for writing. I had written professionally for years—for newspapers, magazines, and corporations. My professional strengths were rooted in my ability to discern and distill a client’s ideas as well as my ability to deliver a polished draft. Always I wrote on topics that reflected someone else’s interests, in the style they requested. I ghost wrote countless magazine columns and articles, my work appearing under my clients’ bylines. The idea of finally writing for myself appealed to me: picking my own topics, selecting my own style, experimenting a bit, and operating outside the usual boundaries. I wasn’t sure exactly where my writing would take me, but I was committed to following my creative voice wherever it went.

Thus, the moment the children went back to school, I launched my blog, V-Grrrl in the Middle. I set up my own Web site, considered ways to draw readers, and updated it five days a week, writing nearly every morning. With V-Grrrl anchoring my morning, I volunteered to help teach writing to young students at my children’s school one afternoon a week. Soon I began pitching in on other projects there from time to time, getting to know other parents and making friends.

Nine months after arriving in Belgium, I’m happy to say my calendar isn’t full nor is it blank. Like a well designed page, it’s a pleasing mix of content and white space, the practical and the colorful. I’ve rewritten my life one page at a time, uncertain where my story is heading but confident I have the words and the will to deal with whatever unfolds in 2006.

January 5, 2006