Forget-me-not...

"Dear Lord, don't let Billy's memories remain anchors that he has to drag along. Turn them to treasures he can carry with him."

This prayer by a friend of Billy Sprague is one of the most profound things I have ever read in my life. It resonated with me when I read it as a teenager in Ragamuffin Prayers. I remembered moving back to Canada from Senegal at age 12, giving up my friends and my dreams of growing up on the edge of the Sahara, and I realized that I needed those memories to be treasures, not anchors that made me bitter.

Now I've moved back to Canada again, from the other edge of the Sahara. These days, it is becoming something of a mantra, and I pray it every single day. "God let my memories become treasures I can carry with me." Right now they feel like stones on my heart, crushing me with their weight. At other times they just remind me of the holes in my life where all the things and people I lost used to be.

I remember a day when I was 13, almost a year after we had moved back to Canada the first time. I was behind our rented house when I spotted a patch of delicate blue forget-me-nots. They seemed like a reminder to me to keep those I had left behind in my heart, but to make room for new relationships, no matter what the future held.

Since then, I've never tried to keep my distance from the people I write about, live among, and love. I've never been good at NOT becoming a part of the culture I'm in, at staying away from seeking out the beating heart of a city, even for my own emotional good. That's just not who I am.

I think that's why I burned out so fast. I had the privilege of speaking to Western University's International Reporting class for the third (fourth?) time last month. One of the things I talked about was the toll that being a journalist in a foreign country can take on you. I wrote about this in my last post, and it's one of the reasons why I am now back in Canada.

But being back in Canada brings its own challenges. I get really confused sometimes over basic everyday interactions, because they are so unlike what I've been used to for the past three years. Small stresses can overwhelm me because of the things hovering just below the surface.

Not many people talk about moving as a loss, but it very much is one. When a person dies, you take the time and space to mourn them. It's expected. But what about when what has died is your way of life, your connection to a community, and your relationships in the ways that you have known them? To me that is a different kind of loss than losing someone to death, but it goes just as deep. Life will never be the same, and that is something to mourn and heal from.

And those people I couldn't keep my distance from? I miss their smiles, their warmth, their presence so much that it is a constant ache. In the part of the Greater Toronto Area where I live, there is a large community of Egyptians. Every time I hear Arabic, I feel it pulling me like a magnet. The other day I finally got up the courage to ask a mother in Tim Horton's, "Are you from Egypt?" Of course, she was, and we spent a few moments talking about the areas of Cairo where we both had spent most of our time. She was utterly gracious and kind, and called me "dear", just like so many other Egyptian moms I've known. After she left, I felt like the veneer I had built up between myself and Egypt had shattered, and it left me broken too. My heart remembered, and I cried, right there in Canada's favourite coffee shop.

Someday, I know that I will be able to feel all the ways that the people and culture of North Africa enriched my being without breaking down. I'll be able to talk to the ones I love there without tears. There will always be that ache, but it will be the beautiful kind. I picture my treasure like a pearl- layers of wisdom, strength and grace built over the pain until it truly is a thing of beauty that I can take with me everywhere, because it is a part of me. But for now...

forget-me-not...

Packing for Life Overseas

Whether you are leaving home for a week, a month, a year, or forever, the most common question that visitors and expats ask when traveling is, “What should I bring?” I asked my own “What should I bring?” questions to friends in Tunisia before I packed up my life. I had the added issue of how to pack for an indefinite amount of time. Will I be back to Canada in the next year or two? I’m not sure, but I’m leaning on the side of no, so I had to think hard before filling my suitcases.

Here are some questions to ask yourself before you pack:

1. How much room do I have?
- DON’T go over the airline weight limits and specifications, unless you want to pay a whole lot extra, or have a whole lot more trouble. Some airports allow you to mail things you had to take out of your suitcases, but some don’t. Personally, I try never to risk it.
2. What will I need while I’m there?
- These are the practical needs. Clothes, resources for work, medicine that you might not be able to get at your destination. Asking questions of people on the ground will really help you weed out what you really need and what will just take up space. Less is more, especially when it frees up a place for...
3. What will I not be able to get there that I will really miss?
- These are what you take only if you have room. You might bring favourite food or treats from home, keepsakes, photos of friends and family, pass-times, and things that just make you happy.

So how did I answer the questions?

1.
In this case it was two 50 pound bags, one small backpack (and I mean SMALL if you don’t want to run into trouble. Here is a link the one I carried, with my 13 inch laptop, a small camera, a Zoom audio recorder and my passport inside), and a mini carry-on case.
I also brought another suitcase full of Christmas presents for my family, since I stopped in Dakar to be with them over the holidays. The suitcase was made possible by some kind friends in Canada. It allowed me to fit my Dad’s new laptop in my carry-on and bump some of my necessities to the extra suitcase. We don’t always have that luxury, but it’s always nice to be able bring some Christmas cheer from home.

2.
For me, this was mainly clothes, but also some resources for my job.
The first thing to think about is the plane. I always wear comfy clothes and shoes, then put another outfit, a scarf, hoodie and sandals in my carry-on if a quick change is needed (or in case my luggage is lost). An iPod, magazine, lotion and lip balm for the dry plane, and a travel neck pillow are pretty good companions too. Any important or expensive things also travel with me on the plane.
For clothes, makeup, jewelry and toiletries, I tried to think about how my routine would change, and pack accordingly. I brought some clothes that would be suitable for fall weather, since Tunisia can get pretty cool. Some of my must-haves were my leather bomber jacket, lace-up ankle boots, warm socks and a couple of hoodies. For the warmer weather I brought Birkenstocks, below-the-knee skirts and lots of tee shirts, with some nicer dresses and tops thrown in. And of course, I included a journalist staple- button down cotton shirts. I tried to keep in mind what would be culturally appropriate and modest, while still focusing on comfort and practicality for my work.
In terms of what I need for my job, the electronics in my backpack about summed it up, but I also picked up a copy of the Associated Press Style Guide just before I left. For free-lance work I brought the Canadian Press Caps and Spelling, and for survival purposes a tiny Larousse and my Becherelle.
I also packed some medications that I knew I might not get for a while. Many things will be readily available to me in Tunisia, but there were some (like ibuprofen liquid gel-caps) that I just did not want to risk being without.
The last real necessity that I brought was my small, well-worn ESV version Bible. It’s better than any compass I know. Without it I’d be lost.

3.
I’m a big fan of eating whatever is available on my travels, so the only “food” item I packed was Vanilla Earl Grey and Vanilla Rooibos tea. Those two are as much about stress relief as a taste thing for me!
There were a few magazines (Outside, Relevant and Lula) that I knew I would be missing and made sure to bring. Then I added Le Petit Prince (my all time favourite book). Luckily I received a Kindle for Christmas, so I was glad I hadn’t lugged half my library with me like I’d wanted to.
Before I left I got some photos printed. I picked my favourite people and memories and will have them on display in my new place on a rotating basis.
Finally, I brought some mini scented candles from Bath and Body Works and some mini perfume bottles (Pacifica Malibu Lemon Blossom, DKNY Be Delicious, and Very Irresistible Givenchy, in case you were wondering). I also chose a few colours from my embarrassingly large nail polish collection. Everyone has their little indulgences that help them get through the busy times, and these are some of mine.



Packing for any length of time can be stressful. but I’ve found that when I remember these three questions, it can actually be a lot fun. I like to imagine the adventures the things I pack will have with me. And, frankly, living with less is never a bad lesson to learn for most of us Westerners, so I don’t sweat the small stuff. Because really, you will live, no matter what you forget or don’t have room for (unless it’s life saving medicine- please don’t forget that!).

What I learned from my father

January, 2008

I can sum up my early relationship with my dad in one word: hero. My dad was my hero. I saw him as the protector, the fun-maker, and the thinker. When we would have guests over, I would sometimes prefer to sit on his knee or beside him while the other kids played. I would listen and watch with wide eyes as he talked with other adults, giving his opinion with the smile that crinkles his eyes and scrunches up his nose. When others talked, my dad would listen with careful, humble consideration. I can always tell in his eyes how hard he is thinking about what people are saying. And whether he agrees or not, his eyes always hold the same respect. From him I learned to always look at both sides of a situation, and to value others’ opinions no matter what my own may be.

Up until I was ten years old my father had no sons. Living in Africa, I grew up with a healthy appreciation for adventure. My dad recognized this and fostered it. So alongside my dolls I played with the bow he had made me, sharpening my own arrows with my mock swiss army knife and targeting passing sheep (until Dad stopped that practice and I had to resort to aiming at rocks and bushes). I was a warrior princess, Robyn Hood’s equal. My Dad’s confidence made me feel strong. “I don’t want my girls to be wimps,” he would say in a playfully rough voice, gently punching my arm.

My dad may have given me soccer balls and bows and arrows, but he never made me feel that I had to choose between those and my more feminine playthings. He cared for and protected my sensitivity, cradling me whether it was my heart or my knee that was wounded. He also made me feel beautiful, telling me often how pretty I was. I remember so many times in my awkward teenage years, I would come out of my room ready for a concert or for church and he would look at me with tenderness in his eyes and say, “Look how pretty you are.” I knew that he meant it, and somehow his approval made everyone else’s not so important.

For my graduation, my father wrote me a beautiful letter. He told me how proud he was of me. Then, near the end, he told me that I was his first heroine. My father’s heroes are men like Blaise Pascal, C.S. Lewis and William Wilberforce. When I read those words that placed me next to people of such accomplishment and passion I began to cry. My dad thought me worthy of the title- heroine- and suddenly all the dreams I had to change the world were not so very far off.

My father has also instilled in me a great sense of heritage. He tells me stories and talks about my family’s history in England and Wales as if it were part of our everyday, modern lives. A writer himself, Dad has recorded stories for me of my grandfather who I knew only briefly as a child before he passed away. In this way I have learned a lot about my dad, and in turn, about myself. He helps me discover where I have come from in order to better discern where I am going.

My father is a sensitive man, but he does not cry often. In fact, I know of only a few times he has shed tears. Of those times, I have only seen one. It was the night I left home and flew back to Canada to begin university. I had a hard time believing that Dad was even crying until one of the girls I was travelling with confirmed it. Those tears spoke more to me than all the parting words we exchanged. They meant that I am cared for, that I am important, and that I will always have someone to protect me when I am vulnerable.

Through the past few years, as I have tried to take my place in a world full of heartache and failure, my dad’s encouragement and confidence in me has rested in my heart like an anchor, able to withstand even the ugliest storm. I have come to him many times with my head spinning with questions of history, theology and social justice. He patiently unravels my ideas, discusses each point, and researches answers he doesn’t know. It has also been a great honour when I have been able to share what I have learned or beliefs that I have developed. I don’t strive, as some do with their own fathers, to win his approval. He is proud of me now, and that in part gives me the confidence to take on tasks that may seem insurmountable. He tells people proudly that I am in a program in university studying to “save the world.” I may roll my eyes, but I cannot help but smile because he too thinks it possible. I’m not alone in dreaming that God can do all things. I’m not alone in hoping for a better place for those who are hurting. My dad is there too, and his prayers and confidence mean everything to me.