In the tunnel

I begin this blog in the first of the two long tunnels on the train from Wellington. Do those of you who read this feel like I’ve been in a tunnel for these last several months? I alternate between thinking that I’m holding up so well and thriving in this new place and thinking that I’m still totally bewildered about what comes next for me. I’m boring myself with these questions.

They’re all still here, of course, the big looming what-happens-when-August-comes questions. We’ve just finalised our flight plans for the mongo trip to the US in June/July. There are some really good things about this trip: I’m going to a Garvey family reunion I thought I wouldn’t be able to go to, which means that almost 100% of Garveys (all except for the cousin about to give birth) will be there. And that’s a great treat. I’ll be able to be there for Elijah’s memorial service, which, because it’s conducted in Elijah’s spirit, is going to be closer to a big art workshop/installation than a typical memorial service. And I’ll get to see family and friends and students as I teach the second summer with the class I began in 2006. All of that is fantastic.

But the trip is also another 40 days out of the life I’m building here, another disruption to this budding life, another time when I explain to people that While I really want to build a relationship with you, I’m out of town some of June and all of July. And did I mention that it’s another two weeks away from my family, another two days on an airplane, and a pretty decent car’s worth of airline tickets? So this is the trade off for living in paradise, I suppose. This is the lucky immigrant’s lot—to not get fully connected in the new land because she can still afford to maintain ties to the old land. And just now, as I pass the Porirua harbour in the slanting late afternoon autumn light, with the black swans mirrored in still water, it feels like a tradeoff I’m willing to make. Check me again towards the end of July.

I’m pretty well acclimated. I look right instinctively when I cross a street and no longer wince as we drive on the left side of the road. I translate the times from the US, from Australia, from Europe, with relative ease. I am learning the culture and knowing which things are culturally appropriate and which aren’t (although I still don’t speak a word of te reo Maori). I fantasise about the new house and what we can do there (the village is starting to know we’re buying Barbara’s house. “That’s the best site in town,” they say). The earthquakes surprise but don’t terrify me (although we haven’t had any really big ones). I instinctively check to see what direction the wind is coming from and even know that south=cold and north=warm. The shape of Kapiti Island fills me with warm homey feelings each night. When people ask me where I live I say, “Here” with a period and not a question mark at the end of the word. And when they ask me how long I’m here for, I say, “Indefinitely.” Because baby, if I have ever been in-definite about my life, it’s now.

So, what do we know? We have about six months of work on the new house before we move in, which means that we hope to be in by December. My friend C and her family have gotten a sabbatical and will come and live in this little village starting next February. Michael’s job goes until July 2008. So July 2008 is an inflection point. It’s when GMU wants me back. It’s when Michael’s job needs to be renegotiated, and it’s when C will likely take her family home (although I’ve warned her about this place). All of that feels pretty solid. Anything built on the ground after that is built on sand. But then again, so is this house, and on a windy weekday with the fire burning, this house feels pretty darn solid. Want things that are definite? You’ll have to find another blog…