I’m padding around in my mukluks and French apron, wiping off the Danish-modern dinette set and generally feeling pretty at home. (Of course, this after I’d once again sobbed my heart out over leaving one of our own behind.)

In spite of the propensity to break out into occasional tears, we are actually happy to have arrived here six hours ago with eight duffle bags, two children, and one silly dog in tow. We are here for at least three years, surrounding ourselves with words we do not know, cobblestone streets which insist on tying themselves in un-navigable knots, and not a small amount of pickled fish.

Oh, and pastries. Don’t forget the pastries.

Paul has a new job at Microsoft in Vaedbeck, just north of the city. All the fun ex-pats work there and his boss Clara is carefully headhunting more. We will be surrounded by intelligence, wit, and people with a variety of lovely accents—basically graduate school revisited. (Oh, how we keep trying to grasp at our youth!) We have a few days to muck about together, and then Paul takes the train to work, where he will eat warm bread and Danish butter everyday at staff breakfast. I believe there is something called “Cake Thursday” as well, so obviously it’s a very hard life. Meanwhile the girls and I will figure out the multiple train systems on our own and complete our most important tour of Danish bakeries. (Vil du ha caffe, ou vil du ha tae?)
We came to this country to live deliberately: to shop less, to own less, to leave a smaller footprint. We want to stop being unilingual. (Q: What do you call someone who only speaks one language? A: An American) We want to give our children a global perspective—even if it is all still Western—and to let our own adult selves be shaped by things we do not know.

Well, that, and the six weeks of vacation.

While we are here we will live in an urban flat that costs roughly the equivalent our six bedrooms Seattle mortgage. With this price, we secure a third room–for writing, and hosting, and maybe, someday, even for our lost boy. So if you have a yearning for pickled herring, windmills, and baked goods involving almond paste– you should come see us. After all, this is a nation where people believe in spreading chocolate on their morning toasts and drinking beer by noon. No wonder it’s considered “the happiest place on earth.” Go on…buy your ticket. We’ll be waiting.

Catie’s final chalk message on our front porch.

A month ago, Lynette accused us of “slipping away under the cover of night.” She was right, that was what we were planning on—in part because we don’t like big to-do’s, and a goodbye party where all our various worlds collide seemd overwhelming. And frankly, I just don’t like goodbyes. Lynette, however, is ridiculously rich in practical wisdom, so instead of moving in the cover of darkness, we planned a series of small goodbyes–dinners, coffees, and cocktails (especially cocktails.)—and these allowed us to say our thank yous and farewells.

All of this has left me quite tear-sodden. At one point, Katie K, my favorite neighbor, found me crying in the driveway. Why? Because I had to say goodbye to Sean—the cashier at my local grocery store. I know. It seems silly, but this is how we live. I seek out Sean’s line at the grocery store every week. Over time we’ve bemoaned the agony of first-time home buying (a condo purchased with his partner); made plans for a language learning CD (“Chinese the Gay Way”); and celebrated his one year sobriety anniversary. This is how we’ve built our life here in Seattle—by bonding with the grocery clerk, making friends with the neighbor, taking in stray boys and stray dogs. So when it comes to leaving, there is reall stuff, real people to leave—and that is far more difficult than selling a car or packing up a living room.

So I cry–because I won’t be able to sip chai with Jen, or have knit-and-tonic nights with Katie. I cry because I’ll no longer share a big old house with a gaggle of roommates. I cry because I’m ill at ease leaving our newly-legally-adult/quasi-grownup, ( I know Josh and Tonya will have his back, but come on–how’s a boy supposed to survive without unlimited internet and a fridge full of dairy products? ) I cry because I’m ripping my children out of their darling local elementary school, and prying them out of the arms of their sibling best-friends, Noah and Claire, and schlepping them a world away from Rosie, who Eden met the day before kindergarten and they are friends still yet. Not to mention what I’m doing my parents, who retired a year ago planning on full-time grandparent duty and are now wondering what they will do with all that time on their hands.

Then again, children adapt, and friendships survive long distance, and teenagers, well, they get “left” all the time at colleges and boarding schools and…I don’t know, boot camp? (Oh lord, don’t let him sign up for boot camp!) These are not reasons not to go. Ahead of us lies a wonderful adventure. If only I could stop blowing my nose and live into it!

In the midst of all the goodbye’s came many lovely gifts. The Uber-Family took photos of the four kids one day and presented us with an album the next. Rosie’s family threw a goodbye party for all the schoolyard chums. My folks dedicated many hours of grandchild tending while we sorted and packed. And Lynette helped her sweet Pascal make us bookmarks that say, “I will hold your place for you!” (This being exactly the kind of sentiment you would expect from a family who’s liscense plates read YOU MATTER and CONNECT.)
All of these gift are so tender and meaningful. They made us realize that, people like us—and that as much as we are connected to them, they are bonded to us. I really can’t explain how meaningful that is. Everytime I think about it, I’m back to the cry.

Just before we left, Katie read me a poem. It is one her father knows by heart, and she says the last stanza reminds her of our home. I think her reading this to me, after our storytelling-hours, is one of the nicest thing anyone has ever offered me. In reading me this poem, Katie proclaimed that the life Paul and I had hoped for had actually come true. So, when I cry a little too much, I read this poem. It gives me hope that we can again find our way to that magic place.

And may her bridegroom bring her to a house
Where all’s accustomed, ceremonious;
For arrogance and hatred are the wares
Peddled in the thoroughfares.
How but in custom and in ceremony
Are innocence and beauty born?
Ceremony’s a name for the rich horn,
And custom for the spreading laurel tree.

A Prayer for My Daughter
William Butler Yeats

Want to read more about the beginning of our immigrant journey? Start here, then move on to this and this
.

Today the grey arrived at Copenhagen, like a shade snapped down over a window. It brought this prose/poem with it.

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This is a place for melancholy songs

The sea stretches
long and grey and even
the seabirds alone on their rocks,
each an island unto themselves.

I feel I am trying
to memorize the landscape,
embed it rebar-deep within the ground of my knowing
until it feels familiar, like home
or at least,
until it makes firm the quicksand of foreign soil
so my children won’t feel the shifting
so they can land firm off the horse.

At home, our wisteria is two years young.
She stretches her thin tips
to finger the bare edges of her over-long trellis.

Here, the wisteria is old
like wisdom, she climbs easily up
two, three, four stories
protecting those who dwell inside
from the wearing winds of age
and change

Only one house stands out
amongst the others,
not for its beauty but
but for its size,
its inappropriate smoothness,
the monstrous heave of its bulk.

Echoing its neighbors, yet
the unbroken stucco,
the brazen two car garage
the freestanding ball hoop lying tipped behind the automatic gate
screams of young money.

The Land Rover drives by,
far to wide for these cobbled streets,
enters the third door I had not seen
which opens by unseen hand
with a whir and a click.
This, too much of the future
on a shore inhabited for five thousand years.

Immigrant Diaries is a new category at Magpie Girl. Here you will find our adventures in Denmark. We move to Copenhagen with the New Year.

In thinking about our move I found myself saying “But we won’t be immigrants there, not really.” Then I was struck by the implicit racism in my own thinking – I had only been categorizing people of colors as ‘immigrants.’ Everyone else had some sort of special ‘I belong’ status in my mind. But we will, in fact, be seen as immigrants in our new home, our whiteness for the first time not granting us the immediate status of belonging. I’m curious as to what that will be like, so here I will record that story.
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On the quest to have one’s own identity while still pursuing cultural harmony:

I could tell right away they were not Danes. Most obvious, of course, was that they had dark skin – a rarity in this platinum blonde nation. She was ‘eating American,’ that is, picking up pieces of her too-chewy cinnamon bun with her fingers. He was pouring ketchup on his eggs. Neither had rye bread, cold sausage, or cheese on their plates. When they spoke British accents emerged, confirming my suspicions.

This is how people see me here. Small tell-tale habits give away my otherness, even when my mouth stays silent. I will never truly fit in.

And why should that be my goal? True, I want to shed my ‘ugly American-ness,’ but I still want to celebrate my unique otherness—as should we all.

Being here has made me aware of how much time I do spend trying to fit in. I’d like to think it is because I want to avoid giving offense. But the truth is I do it at home too, so I know it is not really about deferring to an unknown culture.

This morning I queued to the right on the stairs, ate my pastry with a fork, thought about growing my hair out long – maybe even ceasing to dye it red. Then I realized; I was in immediate danger of losing myself to a false image. I made a conscious decision to be gleeful, but polite, about not fitting in.

“Please don’t let me be ordinary,” my mother used to sing to me from The Fantasticks. It is true that from a young age I have never wanted to be ordinary, have never felt like one of the group. My intutive pull has always been towards the other, the fringe, the outsider.

Still, I’ve always wanted my uniqueness to be from clever choice, not from alien necessity. Here, where one of the national values is “equality through conformity,” I am nervous of being “the immigrant”—of sticking out due to my ignorance of the social norms—this social awkwardness feeling very different from my state-side approach of making a conscious choice to subvert the commercial monotony of the crowd. I don’t want to be different here out of mere social awkwardness. But then again, even moving here will be from choice, from some vaguely daring internal sense of adventure. So I guess on days when my ego needs the tiniest bit of a boost, I can chalked my cultural awkwardness up to cunning personal choice. When I need a shot in the arm to get out and get past all of the unknowns, I can look at my choice to dwell abroad, to be the cultural other, and say like Peter Pan, “Oh, for the cleverness of me.”

This week’s theme at Mama Says Om is “decision.” We happen to be standing on the edge of a pretty big decision. We are looking at some employment opportunities overseas. This comes up every six months or so, and up until now there’s not been a very good fit. But something new is on the horizon and we’re wondering if it might be for us.

There’s a kind of artwork that I do which I tend to think of as “art as spiritual journey.” These pieces are more craft and meditation than they are actual “art.” (Whatever that means.) I often find that they solidify a concept I’m trying to get my head around, or point me in a direction that I didn’t know I was longing for. Working on this piece for Mama Says Om helped me feel like the possibility of relocating was real, was firm. The collage embodied a concept in a way that my mental imagination alone could not. Now I feel like if we pursue this as an option it’s less ethereal — there’s something solid to stand on, and that is making me feel less afraid of the exploration.

To make this collage I used a piece of stationary with a travel theme as a background and applied a map from a European tour book. The birds are a stamp I carved out of a wine cork. The big red “you are here” arrow was cut out of electrical tape and the letters are stickers that I cut up so they didn’t look quite as scrapbook-y. Small pricing tags from an office supply store detail out the verb “to decide.” More stickers on the bottom spell out what I’d have to do if I moved out of familiar surrounds. The sentence in handwriting says “I have a fork” in Danish — the only thing I remember from the round of language lessons I took a year ago. (Actually, that’s not true. I also remember the word for apron and the word for living room … I’m sure those three things will take me a L-O-N-G way!)

Mama Says Om is a great experiment to help creative mom’s hold on to their art-and-soul. You can play too! Just check the weekly theme, and write, photograph, paint, collage, or whatever your way to a post on the topic. Then link to Mama Says Om to inspire and be inspired. Mama Says Om is brought to you by the wondergals at Elaine and Krystyn.

Ps. Here’s some links to other art-as-meditation projects that I’ve done in the past. A little note for context…I am an ordained minister and work with artists who are trying to find a new way to practice old faiths, as well as with interfaith communities, and with women who are trying to access the feminine divine. I teach workshops on art-based meditative practices. Contact me if your interested in booking me for a conference or retreat. moi at magpie dash girl dot com.

Other Stuff
spring equinox
dia de los meurtos: derrida (by Lindell Alderman), altar for darfur
feminine divine,
ignatian examen high point,
ignatian examen, low point
thank you
perched
tsunami intercession
justice (by Rebecca Dallin),

The Ramadan Collection
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