Moving.

I’m moving.

I abhor moving. More specifically, I abhor packing. Actually, when I come right down to it, what I really cannot bear is the act of disassembling my home.

Home. Where the heart is. Where you hang your hat. And so on. All of my life, and to this very day, the most disconcerting question posed to me by strangers or new friends is, "Where are you from?" or "Where's home?" I never know quite how to answer and that fact, in and of itself, feels unsettling. I, the daughter of a Swedish mother and American father, grew up in Copenhagen, Rome and Brussels. Though I didn't know it at the time, there is a term for people like me. I'm a Third Culture Kid. According to the government's website, a TCK has spent some or most of their childhood growing up in foreign countries. The first time I lived in the United States (or 'America' as I used to call it in awe), I was 16 and just about to begin my senior year of high school. Until then, my time had been limited to a few weeks every other summer. East Coast humidity, the stale smell of air-conditioning, and Bubble Yum made lasting impressions.

I'm not complaining. Having had the chance to grow up in various countries, to be exposed to different languages, customs and ways of life is not something I would easily trade. Still, growing up, I never lived in a country where the street signs, billboards, or t.v. shows were in my native tongue. I negotiated public transportation, grocery stores, and the like in a foreign language. And let's be clear: my ability to understand what They were saying was always better than my ability to express myself.

Add to this the amalgam of cultures in my family: Swedish, French and American. The only person fluent in all languages was my mother. When we came together for the holidays, all of us (except my mother) butchered grammar – no language was spared, used hand gestures and overly dramatic facial expressions in order to make our points, and by the end of the holiday no one could muster a word in any language, including their own.The feeling that clung to me for years was that I belonged everywhere at once, yet nowhere. I felt European in the States, and American in Europe. And honestly, I felt neither truly European nor American.

My point is this: wherever I end up these days, I like to feel settled. I like to walk in the door and know that this is where I belong. I don't have tons of stuff but what I do have comforts me. The painted water pitcher that my parents bought when we lived in Italy. My grandmother's diary from 1927, the year she dated my grandfather and the year he proposed. My father's bookcase, and on it, the copy of Winnie-the-Pooh from which he used to read to me at night. Some may call it stuff, but to me it is home.

Which is why I've been procrastinating and have yet to pack a box. Because the moment I take that first painting off the wall and those books off the shelf, this home will no longer feel like mine and I will, again, be neither here nor there for a little while.

But packing also means moving forward, and this I love. Soon enough, I will be in my new home, a lovely one right beside the sea. I'll place the painted pitcher on the kitchen counter and Winnie-the-Pooh back on its shelf. And if someone asks, "Where's home?" I'll be ready to respond. Right here.

On Enlightenment, Sister Mary and Cosmos

"The road to enlightenment is long and difficult, and you should try not to forget snacks and magazines."

— Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies

It hasn’t the been easiest start to a year ever. (It hasn’t been the hardest either. Still…) In the past weeks, each time I arrived at a fork in the path of life, instead of the way widening and becoming clearly lit as I hoped, it seemed I was faced with a multitude of signs that declared STOP or SLOW or You'd Better U-Turn Here. Were I French, I’m sure I would have run into my favorite, ubiquitous French street sign seen at roundabouts: Vous n’avez pas la priorite. You do not have priority here!

A dear friend of mine turns to meditation and prayer in times of extreme stress. This would be a Maui friend. My Maui friends turn to the heavens and shamans and prayer and angel cards more often than my New York friends -they turn more to cosmos and The New Yorker. I go back and forth.

I believe meditation can be helpful and I mean to do it first thing in the morning, but I’m always halfway through that first cup of coffee and New York Times website before I remember. By that point, the caffeine has shot the potential benefit of mediation straight to hell – sorry – so I think, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll start.” The truth is I have trouble sitting still, and I have yet to get comfortable with prayer. My religious upbringing was almost nonexistent and only relatively recently have I begun to figure out how I fit into the whole Believing thing.

When I was 6, my family moved to Italy and I began 2nd grade at the St. Francis International School of Rome. My teacher was the thin, stern Sister Mary. As family lore goes, I took quite keenly to the strict Catholic teachings. My religious frenzy peaked one morning over breakfast as I stood beside my father and sang a hymn about “eating his body” and “drinking his blood." I then pontificated on how the rest of my family was headed straight to hell. My father yelled out to my mother something to the effect of FIX THIS! She promptly called the Swedish Lutheran Church of Rome and a nice pastor drove to the outskirts of the city to go many rounds with me on the topic of religion, or rather, Catholicism. He apparently left in a sweat, but victorious nonetheless. I remember none of this.

The rest of my youthful years contained virtually no religious or spiritual guidance. As a family, we only went to church on Christmas Eve and the rare Easter. My mother claimed claustrophobia in churches, and once a year was the best she could do. At age thirteen, I was sent to confirmation camp in Sweden because my mother had gone. Tradition. Mostly, I remember making friends, biking to the mini-golf, and eating soft pear ice-cream. On our confirmation day, everyone handed out the religious version of business cards - little, white cards with our names and Biblical pictures. Kind of like Pokeman cards, only with small doves and Bibles. When my family moved to Rhode Island, we lived in a lovely house on Elm Street encircled by churches. Sitting on our deck eating Sunday breakfasts, we could see the churchgoers arrive. My father would yell out, “Give my regards to God!” and then settle in with his coffee and pancakes. Watching my parents die did nothing for my spiritual growth. If anything, it sent me reeling in the opposite direction.

At age 32, I moved to Maui for a short respite from life. I fell into an almost dream-like state and before the plumeria blossoms could flutter to the ground, I was at new moon gatherings, soaking paper in the full moon glow, and sitting in circles as powerful entities were channeled. I experienced shamans and intuitive readings and swam with wild dolphins - a spiritual experience if I've ever had one.

Back in New York, I continued the exploration, even visiting a shaman in a post-war apartment building; his den was full of nature, crystals and magic, and his eyes were the color of clouds. One particularly odd night, I found myself sitting on a metal folding chair in a West Side townhouse, chanting sanskrit while the image of a yogi was projected onto a screen.

I'm not sure yet where all this has led me, nor can I clearly define my belief system. I do believe that sometimes yelling, "What the fuck!" feels really, really good. I also believe that if something feels good, be it a shamanic session, playing pool in a dark, dank bar, downward dog or, yes, a Cosmo, then I'll do it. I believe in gathering, reading, listening and learning, and taking in any and all snippets that inspire and have meaning for me. I believe in my friends. I believe in the power of waterfalls, laughing until my stomach aches, a good red-faced-nose-dripping-blubbering-cry (even in an unfortunately public place) and, of course, snacks. And I know that nothing stays one way forever; somewhere around the corner is the street sign that reads This Way, For Sure, or Nothing but Smooth Roads Ahead.