Footprints

Dave and I have been commenting lately about how our carbon footprint from this year will be the lowest in our lives (not counting the airplane trips over and back, of course).  Not having a car, we plan our trips around places within walking distances, unless there is an absolute necessity to go somewhere requiring the use of a taxi.  The lack of ready access to a car has been an adjustment for me.  I have had use of a car my entire life up until now.  I was blessed enough to get my own car when I turned 16, got to take it with me to college, and then purchased my own car after graduation.  I have fortunately never had to think twice about transportation. Before I met Dave and since we have been married, a reliable car has always been at my fingertips.  Now, we have been over here sans car for four months and have already started to notice the advantages that walking has on our bodies.  In addition to our daily running regimes, we probably walk on average four miles each day just for getting Dave to work (Toby and I walk in with him), back again, and then additional Toby walks sprinkled throughout.  If we have meetings throughout the day or errands, the walking mileage only increases.  St. George’s Market, one of our favorite weekend localities, is just under a half hour walk from our house.  If you had told me in the U.S. that I would have to walk a half hour to a destination, my first response would have probably been “Why?” and then my second response would have been to figure out a way to use a car.  But when a car is not a first, second, or even fifth option, one finds oneself using a sturdy pair of hiking shoes on almost a daily basis.  (Our commute to church on Sundays is only a 20 minute walk, however, so more fashionable footwear can suffice.)  Now, I would like to think that after this year of living without a car I can confidently say that I will be returning to The States in January ready to throw away my car keys and turn over a new leaf with my walking shoes.  However, I am fairly certain that will not be the case.  We have been fortunate enough to have a house fairly centrally located to many places within walking distance; things are so spread out in the U.S. that walking everywhere is not always practical.  While it has been a good learning experience to find creative shortcuts on our walking routes (such as was recently the case with our Sunday treks to church), I must say that I also miss the convenience of using a car.  It is nice to not have to think twice about a mode of transportation when the need arises and just go.  That said, I can easily foresee incorporating more walking or biking into my post-international life.  Driving a half mile just to get coffee creamer (yes, I did that) will now be replaced with thinking about it in terms of how long it will take me to walk or ride a bike that half mile.  There are additional benefits to walking everywhere, such as the fact that Dave and I have found ourselves talking to each other more en route to a destination.  Not having to worry about who is cutting us off in traffic or if it's safe to merge lanes has allowed us to have uninterrupted time to just talk with each other as we make our way on our journeys.  Sure we would talk with each other in the car back in the U.S., but it wasn’t the same focus on the conversation when one of us had to have our eyes on the road.  In a strange way, using walking as our primary mode of transportation has brought us closer as a couple.  This year could have a lot of labels associated with it.  One of them could be The Year Without A Car; however, I am starting to think of this as The Year We Learned To Walk Everywhere or, The Year Our Family Got In Better Shape And Grew Closer Through Walking Everywhere.  Living simpler through forgoing the luxury of car ownership has not always been easy, but is has caused our leg muscles and also our minds to strengthen in the miles and discussions we have had on our journeys.  More than learning that we can be self-sufficient in our self-propelled mode of transportation, we are learning that it is truly about the journey and not the destination.

Hope in Belfast

A couple of weeks ago I received an email from a Hope College alum in Germany.  He wanted to know if I was still living in Belfast, and explained that a group from Hope on a May Term in the UK would be coming through Belfast.  He then asked if I could meet with them and discuss life post-Hope.  I responded, and he put me in touch with one of the professors on the trip.  I read the professor’s response to Dave, and it turns out that the professor was an RA in his freshman dorm at Calvin (small world!).  We set up a time and a place, and this past Monday we broke bread with fellow Americans.  The conversations were wonderful, with Dave and the former RA/current professor catching up, me hearing about the latest happenings at Hope, and both of us talking with some of the Hope College students about living overseas.  One of the questions a student asked me was if I would recommend moving overseas.  At first I responded with “I’m not sure”, but as the conversation went on, I changed my answer to “yes”.  I explained that first of all, if I could live overseas, anyone could live overseas.  (I also added that overseas experience is a plus in today’s job market.)  I finally said that as hard has it has been at times for me to be here, it has been a good overall growth experience.  Today, the 24^th, marks 4 months since we touched down in Belfast International Airport, and I am already a changed person and I still have 9 months to go.  I cannot wait to see what the remaining 9 months will reveal about life lessons and life experience in Northern Ireland.

Tuar Ceathas (Rainbows)

I know Belfast’s wet weather has been previously mentioned, but I am feeling the need to touch on it once again.  There is a reason that the Emerald Isle is nicknamed “emerald”.  The hills really are that green as a result of all the rain.  I can be looking out my window at the most perfect blue hued sky, when within minutes dark clouds can be seen rolling over our nearest hill bringing enough rain to quench the American west’s drought in one storm.  However, because of all the rain, Belfast also gets a record number of rainbows.  It seems at least half a dozen times each week I am finding a rainbow appearing somewhere.  And, I must say, Belfast does rainbows well.  I think I can recall seeing a handful of rainbows over the course of my lifetime in the States, and those were “average” at best.  The rainbows here are vivid in color, almost looking fake because they are so bold and stay so long in the sky.  It is not uncommon for a double rainbow to also show off against the dark rain clouds that have just blown through.  In fact, there are so many rainbows in all of Ireland that based upon where you live in the island, and if you still spoke Gaelic, you would have a different name for rainbow.  Just like the Inuit have a variety of terms for snow, the Irish have a variety of names for rainbow.  For example, in the Ulster region where we live (a region consisting of one of the five original tribes of Ireland), a Gaelic speaker would call a rainbow “tuar ceatha” meaning multicolored arch in the sky, but if a Gaelic speaker from down south in the Republic near Cork were referring to a rainbow, he would call it “tuadh ceatha” meaning axe of a shower of rain.  The more I look after rain showers, the more I find rainbows popping up all over the sky.  They have become literal silver linings of the clouds, reminding me that if you look hard enough after each shower there is always a glimmer of hope.  When it feels like a rain storm is never going to end and the cold water never dry up, before I know it another rainbow is beaming down on me.

Adaptation

I was reflecting the other day about the move to Belfast.  That move was one of the most difficult things I have ever done in my life.  I never thought in a million years when Dave asked me if he could apply for his current position that he would actually get it and we would actually live here for a year.  It was a challenging move for me on many levels.  On one level, I had never before left the North American continent.  Traveling was something that my mom, sister, and husband did – not me.  On another level, I liked living in the United States.  Granted, I had never known anything different, but I enjoyed it just the same.  The night before we left I was a wreck (knowing that I would have to wake up at 2:00 in the morning probably didn’t help, either).  I was worried about the unknown and terrified about what life would be like in a different culture/country/continent.  In general, I do not consider myself an adventurer by nature.  I seek thrills, but adventures, no.  Just like my dad, I genuinely enjoy opportunities where I can get my blood and adrenaline pumping such as parasailing, climbing almost to the top of a mountain, running long distances to see how far I can push my body, etc.  However, all of those activities were (relatively) short excursions where I would be returning to familiarity at the end of the day.  There are so many unknowns when it comes to venturing to a new country, let alone a new continent.  The phrase “Let go and let God” comes to mind, however that is easier said than done.  Letting go is hard for me, and having a lack of control was evident when we first arrived.  For example, we had to figure out cell phones (which are very different here), ways to get heat for our house (involving a method new to me), and set up internet (which is difficult when you can’t understand the technician’s thick Belfast accent).  I had a brief period of relief after we were finally in our house and things were starting to fall into place.  However, after the novelty of a new home wore off, February and March were rough for me.  The culture shock coupled with being homesick both were starting to take their toll on me emotionally and spiritually.  I quickly got tired of people staring at me when I spoke because of my funny accent.  When I went to the grocery store I couldn’t find anything because I couldn’t understand their accent coupled with their terms for everyday items (for example shopping carts became trolleys, canned goods became tinned goods, cookies became biscuits, ketchup became red sauce, chips became crisps and French fries became chips).  I began to focus on how I never thought I would end up here all the while I was trying my best to make sense of it all.  When I was in Michigan in April, one of my friends remarked to me how ironic it was that I was in Belfast because I was the one in high school who always said I wanted to move to northern Michigan and live the rest of my days on a farm.  While that was true, I realized that a lot of things have happened since high school that I never dreamed would, and I wouldn't be who I am today without those experiences.  On my way back to Belfast, all of the delays caused by the FAA furloughs provided me with some good time for reflection.  I began to realize that I am in the middle of an exercise in flexibility and mindfulness.  My dad always preached about living in the moment, and making sure that each step in life is not a rush to get to the next step.  After taking some deep breaths, I’m trying to make that more of my motto.  Instead of counting down the months to January, I trying to count the number of daffodils in the park on Toby's walks (I can’t – there are too many!).  As much as I don’t like to admit it, I am wondering if this is part of God’s plan to cause me to grow, have more flexibility, and be more mindful and aware of things that come once in a lifetime – like an opportunity to live in a diverse, historical place like Belfast.

And, Back Again

Last week I was one of the unfortunate air travelers who ended up in the FAA furlough’s crosshairs.  After surviving 8 hour long weather-induced delays the previous week at Newark, I was excited that the weather called for blue skies for my flights back to Belfast.  And then the sequester hit with full force.  All week long I checked on the status of my flight numbers, checking to see how many would actually be affected by the furloughs; statistics started revealing that most of them were feeling the squeeze of fewer FAA flight controllers in the towers directing traffic.  I woke up on Friday and braced myself for the inevitable delays.  My flight from Lansing to Chicago was remarkable for its unremarkableness.  However, Chicago always seems to find a way to throw a monkey wrench into any flight path, and my Chicago to Newark flight was no different.  First, I could not get a straight answer from anyone as to which gate the flight would be departing.  Finally, fifteen minutes prior to departing, they posted the information.  However, more wait time ensued and the predicted boarding time came and went; eventually a gate agent took the microphone to apologize for the delays and blamed it on congress and then started boarding group 1.  Looking at my boarding pass and realizing I was in group 5 (the last and final boarding group), I decided to head up the group as we were herded into line to wait our turn.  By the time we got on the jet way, it was clear that the plane was near capacity with passengers in seats and that all of the overhead storage space had already been claimed.  Instead of simply being able to gate check our carry-ons and retrieve them at the gate in Newark, we would have to check them to our final destinations.  I received my receipt, and realized that the gate agent had written “Belpast” instead of “Belfast” on the ticket.  Feeling nervous that my bag wouldn’t end up with me at my final destination yet again (I was separated from my bag en route to Lansing), I nagged the ticket agent until he went to change it in the system.  Meanwhile, I started hearing the flight attendants mumble about how it was going to be at least an hour if not more before we left the gate, let alone get airborne.  Realizing that my layover window in Newark was shrinking (thus my window to catch my flight to Belfast – and there is only one flight each day from the U.S. to Belfast), I started reciting every prayer I could remember and also called on my dad to intercede for me, as I was flying on the fourth anniversary of his death.  Something in all of that must have helped, because by the end of that hour I felt the wheels lift off the ground as we ascended into the clouds.  Arriving in Newark required me to stay on my toes.  I found my departing gate, only to have to switch gates after I had settled in, forcing me to retrace my steps nearly all the way back to the gate from which I de-boarded the Chicago to Newark plane.  Again I watched as the designated boarding time came and left, with a plane full of passengers getting rather grumpy at the gate (it was nearing 10:00 p.m. by now).  Eventually, though, we did board but had to sit on the tarmac for 45 minutes while we waited our turn for one of the few FAA flight controllers to give us the OK to take off – but finally made it into the night sky.  Typically an hour delay here and an hour delay there would not be so much of a big deal.  However, the delays on Friday were of epic proportion across the country which caused a trickle-down effect and made traveling miserable:  the squabbling in D.C. held the FAA hostage thus causing airlines and airline flight attendants to turn the friendly skies into the get-me-out-of-here skies.  Landing the next morning in Belfast caused me to be a bit bleary eyed, but I was able to look past my exhaustion when I discovered that both of my bags – the one I had checked in Lansing and the one I had checked plane side in Chicago – had made it to Belfast and were now in my hands.  This week I am plunging head first into writing my thesis.  I am finding myself jumping from one adventure traveling back and forth across the pond to starting up another one, although this one must be completed by August, and I have around 30 journal articles to read and (only) 30 pages to write.  Off to the races I go!