They're just things. {The end of decluttering}

With our inter-continental move coming up in two weeks (what?!) we finally had our big Flohmarkt (yard sale) on the weekend. We had an amazing group of friends help us out with setting up and keeping me sane while my husband had fun haggling over prices with neighbours and strangers. (Who has fun doing that? An introvert's hell. I cracked under the pressure of the two older ladies who arrived early while my husband was on a coffee run.) Two of my dear sisters-in-law came down for the weekend and gave the kids the time of their lives, caring for them so well, taking them out swimming all day and singing them a harmonized lullaby.

As we are only moving across the pond with 4 suitcases and shipping a few boxes, we have sold most of our furniture and belongings over the past few months. On Saturday, several people asked me if I felt sad seeing our stuff walking off in the hands of others.

I said, "No. It's a relief."

Partly because no appliances could be brought along, needing an adapter and a transformer, plus the cost of shipping made that an easy decision. Partly because much of it was stuff we no longer used, books we had no time to re-read, ill-fitting clothes, furniture we can't bring on a plane and is not worth its weight to ship. Our tastes have changed and we look forward to decorating a new home slowly, hopefully choosing very carefully and hunting for good deals rather than taking everything we were offered for free (as we did as newlyweds) or buying whatever was cheapest (as we did as newlywed students). What we had been planning and preparing for for months was finally reality, and it is good to see progress.

I've been writing a lot around here (and here and here and here) about decluttering over the past few months. I've found it freeing. I've found it shocking (to see how much we really have accumulated that we don't often use or like). So many times when we've sold something my husband and I both agree "wow, it looks better now without that." Our almost-4-year-old son has dealt remarkably well with seeing things go, taking it in stride when we reassure him that his favourite toys will come along, and explaining that that lamp doesn't fit on the plane.

I did have a bout of sadness six months ago about leaving behind our couch, the one piece of furniture we longed for through years and carefully picked out only 2.5 years ago. I love it, it's comfortable, and it would've lasted til our children brought their boy/girlfriends home to meet us (how long my mom always told us our couches had to last when we were jumping on them). And we are taking some things with us -- I would be sad if our suitcases of current clothing and favourite books didn't arrive, quite at a loss if my boxes full of PhD research got lost, and utterly devastated if something happened to my children's baby books. There's nothing wrong with having a comfortable, inviting home where people feel welcomed, we hope to set up one of those in Montreal when we arrive. There's nothing wrong with enjoying the things we love and find beautiful and useful.

But the main reason I didn't feel sad when selling much of what we've owned is that they're just things. They are. Just stuff.

So many people have lost everything in fires, tornadoes, floods, war. Suddenly. They didn't have a year to carefully pare down their excess baggage like I've had. They didn't get to choose the best and most beloved toys for their children to keep to give them a sense of familiarity when all else around them changes.

Best friends.

What does make me tear up over these last few weeks is imagining how to help my son say goodbye to his best friend. I cry about leaving behind the beloved friend who is so kind to my children, that there will be no one in our new city who has known them from birth. That there will be German family parties and celebrations where our places will be missing. People matter. Eternal things matter.

I hope I'll never set my heart or hopes on my furniture, my technology, my trinkets, my status symbols, whether they be clothes that flatter or books that reflect my interests or decorative items that show I'm hip. I hope I can enjoy the gifts God gives, create a home that welcomes and offers comfort, but keep my heart truly at home in heaven, in eternal things. I hope I will be willing to give things I have to people who need them, without a wince. I hope I'll always trust the One who has provided thus far to provide again. I hope I'll always be willing to sell all I have to follow Him.

More Things I'll Miss about Germany

I started a little list of the whimsical things I'll miss about my adopted homeland (or should I say married homeland?) when we move to Canada this summer. These things begged to be added:

9. Tax included

Every time I have visited my family in Canada over the past decade I've had that moment, in a store or restaurant of, oh, yeah. This was more expensive than it says on the price tag. Ever since OAC calculus at the end of high school, I don't really *do* math. We all have our strengths. I say that's what fingers are there for. Seriously, the EU's inclusion of sales tax in the advertised price is one of the best things about everyday life in Europe. Picturesque architecture and biking everywhere is great, but tax included is right up there.

10. World Cup mania

Now I know Montreal and Toronto are great cities to experience the World Cup in, home to people from every nation overflowing from pubs onto sidewalks cheering for their country of origin. But there is something I love about the three World Cups I have experienced while living in Germany. The entire country united, cheering for "our eleven." Women, men, children, and grandparents discussing the finer points of soccer, saying "we're playing on Friday", taking ownership of the team. The doctor and her team of assistants greet me professionally, each one sporting a soccer jersey of various teams. (Do fights out in the break room?) Angela Merkel is much beloved for flying to the games in Brazil right now, sparing no expense to root on our team in person. "Public viewing" on big screens in every bar and beer garden, faces painted and jersey's donned, it is good fun to spend summer evenings outside in a friendly crowd.

Even if watching in our quiet village, walking the baby home to bed before the end of the game I know the score by the shouts rising from homes around the neighbourhood. The streets are totally empty during a game, you could hear a pin drop between goals as German nation is glued to the television.

11. Excellent health care

... with little waiting. We have a GP, pediatrician, gynecologist, midwife and other specialists for our family when needed. All take time for us, have a friendly/personal relationship to our family (our pediatrician even came to our house for a home visit 5 days after our home birth for a routine check-up, so I didn't have to go to his office). We do pay more for our health insurance monthly than Canadians do, but I think many there would love the availability of doctors, quick, excellent, and personal care we get in Germany.

12. Kinderbasare

I've gushed about these highly organized, parent-to-parent sales before. We got most of our kids clothes, books, and toys in good quality, second-hand, for only a few Euros. Deal-hunting is the mama's high.

13. The Autobahn

Though I am not big on driving or spending time in the car, by now even I appreciate the freedom of driving the speed you want to get where you need to go. Quick and efficient, those Germans. And German drivers who fastidiously all obey the rules, stay in the right lane and only pass on the left.

14. Wine & cheese for under 5 €

When we visit Canada, the prices of both wine and dairy products take our breath away. In the sick-to-your-stomach kind of way. We've enjoyed the great variety of nice, inexpensive wines and cheeses for a decade and will have to re-orient our diets once back across the pond. Not that we live off the stuff, but I am sure the quantity and variety of cheeses will reduce (not necessarily bad for my waistline).

15. Social expectations/norms

I actually will miss certain ones, I think. There are some unwritten rules (actually, I think they are written somewhere...Knigge?) about how one is to behave, shaking of hands (even with children), greetings, holding of knife and fork, waiting for one another to sit, wishing each other Guten Appetit before eating... This was a steep learning curve for a Canadian farm girl, but these social norms I love. North Americans kind of pride themselves on a mentality of every one do what you want as long as you don't hurt anyone else. I love that table manners, which are in some places a lost art, are still widely taught and expected of all. Sometimes it just helps to know what is expected.
I will not miss being scolded on the street by strangers if I jaywalk on a red light (I mostly broke this habit but did it absentmindedly the other day, with my 3 year old son holding me by the hand. Oh, The Look and frown that old lady gave me!)


I could go on and on about bike paths, the efficient train and bus networks that are rarely not on time. Minimalist design. Cobblestone streets in the old city. Der Grüner Punkt. Cheap cell phone plans. Modern, funky, well-maintained playgrounds with huge wooden pirate ships or giant cat tales for my son to climb on. The accessibility of vacationing in the south of France or Italy for average families.
But of course, what we'll miss most are the people. Germans are famous for not making friends quickly, and taking a longer time than most to use the word "friend" to describe someone they work with, or spend time with in any regular intervals. I've heard it said that once a German calls you friend, they're your friend for life.

May it be so.

The last great human adventure

"To leave one's country to go
and live in another country
in inferior conditions,
that is, without a safety net
and without recourse of return
to one's native land,
this seems to me to be last great human adventure."
Dany Laferrière, A Drifting Year

I write from a place of privilege.

Moving from one rich country to another, with education, passports, and family on both sides of the Atlantic makes our family a blessed and privileged kind of immigrant family. I don't know the want, terror, fears of millions of immigrants around the globe who get to a new country with no connections, no money, perhaps no education or no way to have their training acknowledged in the new land.

But still.

These past two days, as we have ticked off a few more big milestones and head into the last busy stretch of moving-packing-sorting, I feel the no safety net feelings.

I came this way a decade ago. And it was hard.

I return to my native land x 4. Blessed. No longer one, but "many."
I've got old friends and contacts in our new city, family an 8-10 hour drive away.

But still. In many ways, Canada is new to me again.

It is definitely new to my husband and children, and though we are excited, there are moments of hesitation, too. We have again tasted His faithfulness these past two months, we have a job and scholarship and provision that could be called miraculous. Thankful. Thankful. Thankful.

But still.

New everything awaits.

The night before I leave on any kind of trip, I never want to go. It goes back to the night before my much beloved one week of summer camp, which I'd saved for and looked forward to all year. I threw up in the bathroom and told my mom I didn't want to go.

I love traveling, I love the new, I get bored easily.

But still.

Something in us longs for comfort, the known, to be known.

As we sort through belongings with our 3 year old, we talk about what to take, what is important to us. Despite my desire to de-clutter, I value the important memories, the best toys, a few security objects. Journals, photo albums, a few beloved books. There is something very unnerving about giving away all of the furniture you have slowly cobbled together to make a household since you showed up with a suitcase a decade ago. Since we were both students in a 60 square meter, 1 bedroom apartment.

They are just things.
We are blessed to be able to bring a few things, but we hold tighter to each other.
And we won't pretend it isn't hard.
We'll probably shed tears, and hold friends close, and part of us will wish we could stay.
We'll let ourselves mourn this season, even as we rejoice in the next.

the last great human adventure.

Decluttering house, mind, and soul {Part 1}

In anticipation of our Big Move this summer, this week I've been relentlessly sorting and pricing stuff to sell at the Kinderbasar held by our local Kindergarten this weekend. We've been hosting parties and giving away DVDs and books that weren't worth selling on Amazon, posting ads and getting stuff picked up. We've been stealthy; so far the kids haven't even noticed anything missing as we pare down their book selection, unused toys and outgrown clothes.

Where did all this stuff come from?  It wasn't always this way.

When I as 21, I lived in a tent in the woods for 3 months with only a backpack's belongings.

Here, in the raw, windswept beauty of the Îles-de-la-Madeleine (even their name is beautiful). It had been a dream of mine to visit this archipelago of tiny islands in the Golf of St-Lawrence since I had discovered their existence about 3 years prior. I've always had a thing for maritime culture: the boats, the fishing villages, the ocean, the céilidh kitchen parties of Canada's East Coast provinces, the fiddle music and boisterous singing. The smell of salt water in the air, the feeling of sand between my toes, and the ethereal glow of moonlight on the water.

Even better, these islands belong to Quebec and are (save two tiny anglophone communities within the archipelago) about 96% French-speaking. I was hooked. During my year studying at Université Laval I made some friends from the islands who kindly and generously invited me into their circle of friends, helping me to find a job and figure out the logistics of a summer in their islands.

So I spent 3 months that summer living in a tiny North Face 2-person backpackers tent. It was perfect. A colleague at the vacation center where I worked helped me (that is, I mostly watched him) construct a raised bed of sand under my tent, and we strung a large tarp from the trees branches above, meaning that no rain ever touched it all summer long. I had chosen an isolated spot in the woods down a barely-there path, not near any of the other summer employees also living in tents, as I prized my sleep and privacy.

I slept breathing in the crisp salty-pine air. Upon hearing this, Europeans ask me about animals (they are convinced bears stalk every Canadian's daily life); there are none larger than a house cat on the islands, so that was not a worry to me. My biggest problem was finding my nearly invisible path to my tent in the dark when I would return from an evening out and had, yet again, forgotten my flashlight. Stumbling over underbrush with arms stretched straight out, the glow-in-the-dark zip pull on my tent faithfully guided me home.

I loved the freedom of waking up in the morning, maybe going for a dip in the ocean if I had time, pulling on some clothes (my belongings, which could fit into a large hiking backpack all laid out beside my sleeping bag in the "second person" sleeping spot in the tent), walking up to the campground showers to freshen up for the day. Eating in the restaurant at an employee discount and being immediately at work. It was a little-to-no-makeup/jewelry summer, a few outfits, a few books and my journal. I caught rides to the main island with friends or we hitchhiked. A friend's family let me stay with them when I needed to, I must have done all my laundry there.  It was a simple life, and the lack of possessions to maintain and bills to pay was incredibly freeing (especially to a student-loan-debt plagued young graduate).

It was a summer of sun, sand, sea, and wind. When I returned to the City at the end of 3 and a half months, quickly, via a two-hour plane ride rather than the 24-hour drive by which I got to the islands, I was hit with culture shock. So many buildings. So many advertisements and billboards. So many things. To buy. To pay off. To house. To clean.
So much materialism.

Back then, I wished I could live in that simple, clutter-free island summer bubble forever.

Part one of a little series...

The Trail

Hiking those familiar trails
felt like coming home
to a place I had lived in thrice.

weeks, months, weeks

In a lifetime, short
but pivotal
times
of learning, growing, stretching, straining, singing
laughing, cherishing, changing, celebrating.

Moments on benches and paths
scribbled prayers
tear-stained journal
Surrender and new life.

The Alpine air filling lungs broad and clean
built strong on the spiritual heritage in this place.

I am reminded of lessons learned, mentors gone before, strangers-become-friends who shouldered packs and hiked for hours in front and behind me.
Incompatible tribe
different nations
different ages
different allegiances and preferences
different everything
but one God.
And the strong and fast took the heavy things from the weaker, slowed their pace, took the last place in line.
And we pressed on 
and we listened and we tore down borders and we let each other in and we learned to love 
in spite of it all.

They taught me that I too can love 
those whom I at first didn't like, 
with whom I had nothing in common. 

They taught me why Church matters, 
that I need others
to be fully who I am meant to be.
That those fruits of love, 
joy
peace
patience 
kindness 
goodness 
faithfulness
gentleness 
self-control 
only grow in the rich soil of community
Fertilized with annoyance and waiting and offense and hurt.

They taught me to go from this place 
and put down roots and let people in. 

And, eventually, I did 
and I am grateful for 
that motley tribe and what they teach me still, 
when I remember.

I am reminded that the trail 
is sometimes flat and open and comes easily. 
The ground springs beneath my boots, coniferous cushion.

But sometimes it is steep and arduous
and I have to put my head down
and need an encouraging word to get to the top.



The trail is sometimes muddy
and I have to slog my way through
and progress can only be made slowly.

Sometimes the trail is littered
with branches 
or it is closed 
and we have to find another way
and there are obstacles to overcome. 



Sometimes the fog descends and we can't see the peak 
or even the next bend
but 
there are trail markers, if you look for them.
And if I missed it someone on my team has spotted it 
and they show me which way to take
so we keep going
together.



I am reminded 
that I don't need to know what awaits today
or exactly where the trail leads
if I trust the Guide.

(And we never really know it)

I can see the next step, and that is enough

to follow.

On having no idea where I am going

It has been a little quiet around here, I've been tuning out of most blogs and social media lately. I feel a need to quiet my mind, fill myself with God's Word, to open my mouth and eat what he gives me. And it is "as sweet as honey in my mouth."

We're in a season of seeking, listening and planning. Looking back and looking forward. I dug out my journals and notebooks from a decade ago. Sometimes I shake my head at the folly of my ways, sometimes in wonder at my youthful boldness and wisdom, and mostly I bow it in thankfulness for God's faithfulness and all that He has done. He has led and guided when I was all confusion and striving and questions. He has done far more than I ever asked or imagined. I have so much peace going into this next season knowing who holds me, us, our little lambs. As our pastor reminded us beautifully in church this morning, the other disciples stayed in the boat while Peter stepped out bravely on the waves, thinking the boat was safer. But that little fishing boat in the storm was never safe. Either way, He has always been the one holding me.

Everything I knew and believed 10 years ago has been taken apart and put back together again since, through the storms of depression, changing continents and countries, culture shock and wedding planning in a foreign culture, moving, marrying, being student-poor newlyweds, planting ourselves in a church for the first time (really putting down deep roots), writing theses, graduating, first jobs, having babies, moving again. 

It's funny, even, to see things I wrote a decade ago still ring true today. To see many of the same truths and adages, now believed with even greater conviction of a bit more life experience.

I came across the prayer of Thomas Merton copied out in my journal, sent to me by my sister. I prayed it with all my confused little heart back then, and rest today in the firm knowing that he has led me by the right road, a good road and still, he leads me on.

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself, 
and the fact that I think I am following Your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. 
But I believe that the desire to please You
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that, if I do this, You will lead me by the right road,
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore I will trust You always though I may seem to be lost
and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for You are ever with me,
and You will never leave me to face my perils alone.

A sun-drenched, cappuccino & chocolate filled late-summer weekend

Saturday night I posted on Twitter my #onewordcheckin check-in "thankful" and went on to say, somewhat defeating the one word part "we've had the most restful, beautiful, adventurous, sun-drenched, cappuccino & chocolate filled late-summer weekend." 

It truly was a weekend for the books. The preceding weekend was exhausting, solo-parenting with my husband away from Friday at 5 to the wee hours of Monday morning. The kids don't like it, I don't like it. We went to several church services at our church where we could hang out with friends & I had help with the kids, and a dear friend, Sylvie, came over Saturday evening, but still, we just survived it. The weekend before that, we had just returned from Canada and were dealing with jet lag, taming the wild yard, washing and putting away, and sorting all the kids clothes: what's too small, too big, what can be sold at the upcoming Kinderbasar. 

So this weekend was much-needed and such a blessing. We had had one more glorious week of late-summer sunshine, temperatures around 27 degrees every day which is my sweet spot. Not too hot, not humid, just gorgeous skirt and t-shirt weather. I worked until mid-afternoon Friday at the university while my husband, on his final day of paternity leave, took care of the kids and grocery shopped. It is typical for many people in Germany to stop working at around 2 or 3 pm on Fridays. All official offices, schools, universities etc will basically be closed to the public as of noon on Friday. It is a busy time for all in the service industry, obviously, but many others start their weekend sometime before 3 or 4 pm on Friday. 

We decided spontaneously to visit a nearby city, Ueberlingen, which we hadn't been to in about a year. There were two main motivators for the trip - we wouldn't need to use the car, and Ueberlingen is on the other side of our lake in perfect position to catch all of the early evening sun. We put the kids in the Chariot, jumped on our bikes and rode the 3 km downhill to the sister-village Wallhausen. From Easter-October there is a passenger ferry which runs from Wallhausen to Ueberlingen. It carries people and usually almost as many bikes, as our area is the perfect bike-tourism destination. (We locked our bikes and Chariot on the dock and got a round-trip ticket.) The 15-minute ride is just right for kids, enough time to enjoy the view, the thrill of being on the water and exploring the boat, but not long enough to get bored.

We disembarked in Ueberlingen and enjoyed strolling around their Seepromenade (lake promenade), a long strip of restaurants, parks, ice-cream stores and places to access the lake for a swim or sit and enjoy the view. 

Then we all enjoyed gelatto and wading around in the fountain.

My only complaint was that the last ferry back home was at 18:30, another hour and watching the sun sink towards the horizon would have been just fine with me. But we did run into our friendly pediatrician with his bike and a huge ice cream cone on the ferry, and did an informal check-up on the way back home saving us a trip to his office.

The steep uphill bike ride home ensured we got our weekend work out in. At home we got the kids in bed and topped off the evening with white wine, a French cheese plate and Les Miserables. And some Swiss chocolate. Perfect day.

Saturday I got to sleep in a little while my husband took baby on an early morning walk to the bakery for fresh bread. After our traditional leisurely Saturday morning breakfast with a strong cappuccino to try to wake this night owl, we got ready and took the Chariot (this time in its stroller-function) downtown on the bus to the Altstadt (the old part of the city of Konstanz, where all the shops are in the large pedestrian only zone). The bus is definitely the most relaxing option on a Saturday, we loved avoiding the traffic and parking.


We enjoyed the city before it got busy, browsing in a few locally-owned shops and, especially, hanging out for an hour on our favourite street. The Zollernstrasse is only a block or two away from the busiest parts of Konstanz, which are overrun with tourists and street performers in summer. But this street is quieter, mostly-pedestrian and features a high-end but inspiring Danish furniture/housewares store. I'm not in the market for anything but dreams at the moment, but I love to browse there. Just out front there are 3 small pieces of kids playground equipment (how to call them?), which our city has installed in various locations throughout the pedestrian zone. Our son loves these, and can play on them easily for an hour, running back and forth between them. What a delight for a child amidst mama & papa's errands and being dragged from shop to shop, to find something just for them? Even if we only have 5 or 10 minutes we always stop to let our kids enjoy them. 

A chococcino from the real-deal Italian, standing-only cafe and dealer in espresso paraphernalia across the street made my morning.

We spent the next few hours at the annual Kinderfest put on by our city, with stands from many different Kindergartens and child-related businesses with free activities and giveaways for kids. A fire truck and ambulance to explore topped off the experience for our kids, who then both zonked out, one in the Chariot, one in the Ergo on my husband's back, enabling us to enjoy a quiet lunch date at our favourite gourmet burger restaurant. 





Today autumn arrived with the rain. Today was Sabbath and rest and a walk with my babe in my new wellies.



Thankful.

Border-crossers

I love/hate this university courtyard terrace with its postmodern architecture; I hate the dips, slants, precarious cobblestone steps and myriad potential for tripping, catching a heel, falling in front of a hundred students/colleagues/professors while trying to balance a coffee in one hand, lunch in another, and a transparent library bag of books slung over your shoulder. I love soaking up one of the surely last hot days of summer, trying to infuse the coffee directly into my bones after a sedentary morning proofreading an article in my north-side, shaded office. I love overhearing conversations in a handful of languages; a post-doc complaining in English to his silent colleagues about both his boss and his Hiwis (student assistants) "I said yes but then some minutes later I thought, I am not a secretary!"; a young female student exclaims loudly in German "It was on sale!!"; the Chinese man talking loudly to too compatriots at a picnic table; another group sitting cross-legged speaking Spanish. German students explaining how hard it was to get accepted to their program of choice; others, obviously all non-native-English speakers, getting to know new friends in Europe's common tongue. I am reminded it is September, not quite "back to school" time at German universities (the fall-winter semester begins in mid-October), but there are still plenty of people in the library, finishing papers, studying for their state exams, and a batch of new ERASMUS international students freshly arrived in town for their pre-semester German course.

I took that same German course 8 years ago when I first moved to Konstanz. It was the second German course of my life, after having providentially learned to count to 100, introduce myself (Ich bin Christina. Ich komme aus Kanada. Ich spreche englisch und französisch.) and sing Grün Grün Grün sind alle meine Kleider in an introductory German course at Université Laval in Quebec City three years prior. Back then I had no idea I would marry a German, move to Germany, and end up with German children with whom I would later sing that same children's song. Somebody else did. 

That month-long September Kurs back in 2005 equipped me with the simple past and future tenses and some key vocab to help me decode rental ads in my desperate search to find a room to rent in a WG (living community, that is, an apartment shared with other people who are often strangers at first). During my first month in Germany, my then-boyfriend now-husband was out of town working and I was thrown in the deep-end, alone in a new culture, going to apartment-interviews by myself armed with my vast knowledge of German and hopefully cute enough accent to get me a roof over my head (everyone thought I was French, with my Québécois-tinged German pronunciation).

During that month I crossed the Swiss-German border every day from where I was staying on the Swiss side to get to the university and to search for a German abode. In the evenings I would wander the streets searching for reception on my German cell phone so I could talk to my boyfriend on the phone, telling him of all my incomprehensible and frightening encounters with the German species. We'd often crossed that border in trepidation the preceding spring, when I was just visiting him and had technically overstayed my official welcome in the EU.

Why are border crossings always laced with fear, tinged with trepidation? Even in those with nothing to hide, with all the right papers and none of the wrong baggage, borders make us nervous. 

I grew up an hour and a bit away from the Windsor-Detroit border, between Canada and the United States. Approaching a border always was coupled with getting our story straight, rehearsing the most straight-forward way of explaining where we were going and why. As kids we sensed the tension in our parents voices, the command to "Quiet down!" At the border, the customs official is clearly in control and we must be polite, clear and direct to avoid any uncomfortable delays or random searches.

Although borders are invisible, they are felt. They are felt by those international students, new to this university, this culture. Flying over the ocean on my first few trips to and from Europe, I always spent some of the plane ride in deep introspection. [I chuckled to myself remembering this during our flight to Canada last month. Now our flights are consumed with trying to keep the kids reasonably quiet, amused, dry, fed, and hopefully at some point asleep. Now I juggle snack boxes and board books, soother and drawing tablet rather than staring out at the plane's wing having a metaphysical moment. These days I am excited if I get a chance to actually finish one in-flight movie after seventy-billion interruptions.] Back then, I would gaze out over the cloud-carpet and journalling what I was leaving behind and my hopes and goals for what awaited me. Crossing borders means transition, usually leaving behind one stage of life, one adventure, and passing on to the next. The liminal space of an airplane and a long flight allow time to take in the border, time to swallow the crossing and all its implications. 

Borders separate, they demarcate difference. Borders give security by retaining the power of exclusion.   Europe's borders are becoming more permeable, cities (and even villages) are ever more diverse. This university courtyard buzzes with border-crossers; many of these students and faculty have crossed borders and do so daily be they political, disciplinary, cultural, socio-economic, generational. 

I too long to be a border-crosser, one who erases the lines that separate a little more each day.