Looking at my WordPress App in the iPad and saw this half written post from October last year. Since I have spent so much time looking at identity, thought I would include it.
Moving for me has been a way of life. I’ve been moving since I was four. I have memories that are surrounded by boxes, surrounded by butchers paper, surrounded by piles of stuff. Standing with Mum in different homes, unwrapping the packages of each box. Always carefully as we searched to make sure that each precious possession had arrived and arrived intact.
Our shipment arrived, has been unpacked and put away. We have sorted through the piles, ticked off the inventory, found a new home (almost) for each treasured piece. We’ve moved furniture round and round, from room to room, trying to make the new spaces work. It’s looking pretty good. We’ve begun to feel settled. So much so, that I have found the time to sit, to reflect and realize that not everything made it across the equator. We left something behind.
I can’t seem to find my identity.
My husband found his quickly. Annoyingly so. Arriving home in the middle of the football season allowed him to slot back into Melbourne’s sport mad community. He took the kids with him, they’ve found a slot. They’ve joined a conversation. One that they find interesting, exciting and compelling. Even in January, in the midst of the cricket and tennis, there is still a place for the footy. The conversation continues no matter where you are … even standing on a beach with waves breaking next to you, as you watch your kids in the surf.
My level of interest in the footy is limited. I know enough to stir the hubby up but that’s as exciting as it gets. My interest in any sport is limited … gold medals (or the lack thereof) at the Olympics leaves me cold. Ditto with politics, Aussie celebrities and TV shows (although I’m warming up to a few).
Essentially, I’m a nomad. I found my conversation among expats overseas. In Denmark most of all.