for my friends, without whom none of this would be possible

Look at me flying off that rope!  Look how I overcame my terror and trusted my ability to reach up to that next knot as I took off, to hold on until it reached the limit of its arc, to let go before it headed back toward land! You could say that all my moves around the world are a little like this- gathering myself up, assessing risks, and then leaping before I have time to talk myself out of it- and then landing and adapting as quickly as possible to my new environment. 

Isn’t that a sweet and tidy little metaphor? Sweet but false. It leaves out the most important parts of both stories, the parts that make this leap and this picture possible to begin with.

The true story is that there were many friends just outside of the frame of this picture, without whom I would never have made the jump.  One helped me snag the rope on a long heavy stick, and others were floating in tubes nearby, encouraging me, shouting when it was time to let go, ready to help me if I needed it. The picture itself would not exist without the friend who took it, who also organized the trip.

Every single one of my moves has been the same in this way- they have never been a solo effort, not even in the days before I had a partner and then children. There have always been friends near and far who together weave a net of support and humor and connection. Friends to talk through the pros and cons of choices whether the talking is at their kitchen table, over a poor cell connection or a late night web chat, friends to take walks with, to share a beer with in the midst of packing, to send me parcels of silly and meaningful things, friends of friends who already live in my future home who answer questions to help me feel more prepared, friends who are willing to tell me they think I’m making colossal mistakes, but will stand by me anyway.

I'm thinking of you all as I write this, hoping each and all of you know this is about you.  I will do my best to do as much for you. 

NOT trailing for one hot minute. Heaven.

The kids and I are in Vermont, where I am working at a day camp, my first full-time job in 13 years.   Two of my kids are campers here and the oldest is at an overnight camp a few minutes up the road.

I've shed my trailing spouse label for two whole months and it’s every bit as sweet as I had imagined it would be.

Our first week here was bewildering and wonderful. I felt lost between worlds. The tree-covered hills were impossibly beautiful to my eyes that were still half-expecting Doha’s drab flatness. It took three weeks for my dreams to catch up with me and place me here. I kept waking up from city scenes in which I was trying to find an elevator, flag a taxi, or spot familiar skyscrapers to guide me home.

We considered spending the summer making shorter trips out of Doha to explore countries closer by. We’d narrowed it down to Turkey, Croatia, Gibraltar, or maybe France when this opportunity to work at a summer camp at which I had grown up, and that the kids would all finally be old enough to attend, came up.  There was no contest.  While I want to show my kids as much of the world as possible, they will be still able to choose their own expeditions when they get older.  My job is to provide a good base from which they can safely launch.  Summers of living outdoors in this community full of kids and young adults and music and silliness and hard work and play will go a long way towards making them ready for the rest of the world.

Working again is hard. I’m not used to having to stay organized in this way.  After thirteen years of having my priorities be focused on home now it’s hard to shift them to another system that I did not design myself.  Up until now the details of my days are those I have helped arrange.  Keeping track of my family and home doesn’t really compare to a camp with 50-90 kids and 40 staff people. The challenge of learning routines and names and keeping track of tasks and priorities that shift from one moment to the next is humbling. I’m appreciating certain ways that the last 13 years have better prepared me to handle all this but also realizing that it’s harder to be here than I was expecting. Sixteen summers and a couple of springs here between age 9 and 27 mean I’m mostly familiar with the culture but institutions change over the years, as have I, and there has been some adjusting to do. 

And it’s all entirely worth it.  Even when I’m grouchy and tired I look up to the hills and feel relieved that I’m here.  Doha has been hard and though we’ve each found ways enjoy aspects of it and make it home, it can never satisfy our craving for green nature.  This time here in the clear light and mountains of one of my favorite and first homes, among new and old friends with whom I’m having rich, challenging, and sometimes hilarious conversations, is filling me up, hopefully enough that I will be ready for another ten months of Doha when it’s time to go back home.