Four-Three-Two-One

March 22, 2008

After nearly four months in Oz, I have changed address three times, had two foreign visitors, and received one big delivery of personal effects. I can’t say everything was smooth like clockwork, but to a certain extent it seems things couldn’t have happened any differently. That is why this very moment seems so puzzling to me.

As I tore into the 11 boxes of personal belongings, I felt like a kid on Christmas morning despite the fact that I knew what were in the boxes. The comfort brought on by the sight of my old things, items I had seen everyday in the past several years of my life, was more than enough to trigger another episode of nostalgia. Just yesterday, my friend Paula said I seemed to be settling in well and less homesick than when I first got here. I agreed with her and felt I had turned a corner only to find myself back to where I started.

I felt a pang in my heart as I looked through pictures of my wonderful friends and colleagues back at home. I wished I was back in San Diego and that things were just as they were. I knew a lot has changed since I left, and I knew those changes would have taken place regardless of my relocation. The only difference would have been bearing witness to the transformations or to go through one myself as well. None of that knowledge eased the semi-existentialist panic I felt inside me.

One would think by now I would be committed to my decision, yet I find myself questioning the rightness of my choice. I remember at one point I was only too eager for a change of scenery, an adventure; perhaps inspired by my recent country hopping and Robert Frost’s The Road Less Traveled. But I am failing to see the big picture consequence of the present. I have lost my purpose. What is the point of all this effort? I feel like I am trying to lead dual lives: my life here and the life I would’ve had back at home, both leave me neither here nor there.

Maybe having my things here really cements the reality that I have made a permanent move. Living out of two suitcases in the last four months, despite having bought a bed and sofa, still had the taste of transience. My apartment wasn’t my home; it was just another place to sleep. Now I am filling the flat with my possessions, and already I am thinking about how I will shed them when I go. Like a broken tape recorder I am only capable of fast forward and rewind. I need to slow down to the right pace to hit play.