Right now, my physical possessions are in three different places, though my self is only in one.

I have about ten boxes of stuff sitting in a little-used office building in a village in South Korea. Here in Las Vegas, NV, I have the essentials and a few childhood things that haven’t been necessary to move out of my parents’ home since I left seven years ago. The bulk of what we own is in my husband’s parents garage in Twin Falls, ID. (And for the record, it really needs to be packed better than it is.)

It is a strange feeling to have my life spread out like this, but it coincidentally is reflective of my state of mind. The only thing that would make it more true would be if I had some things stored somewhere near St. Louis, where I spent a lot of my growing-up years. A big piece of me belongs there and honestly, I never expected not to go back. Now I am two steps out from living there and sometimes I feel like I left on a whim. Yet nothing has been strong enough to pull me back yet, though it’s not that I haven’t tried. 

When I get on Facebook and see the constant stream of familiar faces, settled into nice homes with their families, I feel like I am doing something wrong. The permanence that they have, the sense of place and routine that they have is something I long for but haven’t really gotten yet. And at this point I don’t know when that will happen.

But there is something comforting in being “without a country.” We have recently come home from two years of living abroad, yet something in us is not ready to settle down yet, despite the struggles of expat life. Part of it is a sense that we might miss out on something if we don’t try something new. And there is also something to be said for having a crazy, hair-brained idea and just seeing if you really can make it work. 

That was our first two years in South Korea – a hair-brained scheme that turned out differently than we’d thought. Now we’re hatching a new plan and only time will tell how it will work out. I think we still have at least a couple more years of feeling scattered to the wind. But I aim to take joy in the journey wherever we go.

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(photo credit)

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Why write?

To those who may not know, I’ve always been a writer. From elementary age doodles to Young Author’s stories to a major in writing for the Media, I’ve known for a long time that it’s a big part of who I am.

So why do I struggle so much these days with doing it and committing to it? I think there are many reasons I could list but the main one is that I don’t care about it anymore. But I want to care. I think I underrate the benefits of it – the catharsis, the time just spent in my own head, fleshing out my ideas. And most recently, I want to be writing so that I care share the collective memory of our family with my daughter and any other children we might have. I know that if I’m not preserving those memories, then no one else will.

The other thing about writing that I easily forget is that I have something to contribute. In the last few years I have spent many hours reading the writing of others, especially in the form of blogs. For some reason I haven’t been writing myself, though. Honestly I think that in some ways, I didn’t want to spend that time fleshing out my feelings and thoughts. But for me, writing is self-care. I can see now that I haven’t been caring for myself if I haven’t been writing. And though I’m a somewhat private and reserved person, writing is my way of sharing myself with others.

Though this that I’m writing today is not quite what I want to say, I want to commit to do better – to share myself in one way or another. My time will only become busier, the years will get on, and I will keep saying “I’ll do it later.” I’m going to start now. Here it is.