It's Only For A Year

My sister told me a funny and very pertinent story the other day as I was debating one of life’s hit-you-over-the-head moments that had occurred. She told me of a man who had been caught out at sea, desperately treading water to stay alive. A boat came by and asked him if he needed help and he said no, he believed that God would save him and his faith was so strong he let the boat sail past. Then a helicopter spotted him and sent a rope down for him to grab. Again, he shouted to the heavens, and the helicopter, that his faith would carry him through this dangerous and terrifying time and that God would save him. Within an hour, the man drowned and went to Heaven. Once there he said to God – what happened, I believed in you with all of my heart and you deserted me in my hour of need. God replied, I sent you a boat and then a helicopter, what else were you expecting?

The reason I bother to tell this story aside from the fact that it really made me laugh, was the chord it struck in me this week; the idea of having to be hit over the head to realize what is in front of me. I have four sons and quite a complicated and full life. But before these beautiful boys were born existed a writer who thought she could conquer at least one or two media genres without tremendous angst and sacrifice. Writing has always come easily for me as long as I’m writing from the heart about subjects I’m passionate about. I’ve worked with other women creating screenplays that I still would go and watch in the cinema or on TV, a novel that still stands strong subject-wise and I have written on my own in the quiet nook of a coffee house for years. All of these experiences were self defining more than I realized at the time, because when I sat across from a current Head Writer of what I know will be a successful new series, he was asking if I knew any British (I am a citizen) female writers living in LA that could be brilliant, (he may as well have said her name had to be Jennifer too!) and I wanted so much to say uhhh, yeah, she’s right here, right now. There was a time when I would have pulled my CV out of my bag, yes I would have actually had it handy, and waited for the perfect moment to pitch myself.

But I couldn’t. I had to admit in that moment to myself, the most important person to admit anything to quite honestly, that I wasn’t ready anymore. That that woman, that writer, is busy raising her boys and that being in the writer’s room would be the ultimate sacrifice for something too great to give up. I have friends who seem to do it all and there are days I could join their group and feel accomplished in different arenas as well. But what hit me over the head that night was how far away I was from that particular path of writing and how sad it made me that years had actually passed, not months, since I was really prepared to step up. I suppose I had always considered it possible and not that far away, and that moment made me see and feel and obsess on the truth of where I am and what is real.

I need to write, that much is clear. And I long for the format of story-telling; giving a voice to the characters in my head that play out dramas and dreams in equal measure. There I was minding my own business, being a good wife to the Husband and playing host to another writer thinking my life was quite balanced, when I got whacked with Life’s hammer from behind. I didn’t realize I had this sense of loss inside and yet it’s there, like a flower I forgot to water, but not dead yet. Like those tulips that wilt but with another stem cut and fresh water, they can rise again.

The boat, then the helicopter are two rescue attempts the drowning man didn’t expect; he couldn’t see them for what they were, and therefore didn’t use them. For me, what was ignited was a moment of recognition that I still care about continuing to evolve, being more; as a writer, a mother, a woman. More. Not a rescue, I’m not drowning, but a cause for action. More.

Back from holidays.  I can tell the immediate difference in my temperament.  I am more anxious of being tired and not ready for the day; Husband and I start to sleep poorly together and my brain twirls and whirls with inane details.  Lessons, classes, tutors, doctor’s appts, play dates, the same list for most moms and yet it feels personally debilitating.  I know I’m going to forget something.  Day one and I know there is something I am not remembering. And yes, by 430 it becomes clear; it’s the piano teacher. Right at the end of carpool when I thought I did it, I’m nearly home without any hiccups, the phone rings with the unnerving news of the lesson that I forgot. And the thing is, I like this teacher. She’s a very cool actress-turned stunt driver/music teacher extraordinaire. It’s the stunt driving that impresses me the most. Picture a beauty queen – literally she was Miss Utah or something like that – and place her in an all male world, and she rocks it! Anyway, the lost piano lesson confirmed my suspicions that all was not well inside my mind.
PS Found some amazing non-oaky central coast Chardonnays that gave California a white boost for me.

My friends in London are still basking in the glory of the timelessness of Spring break; Easter holidays they call it there. It’s nearly a four week adventure where most disappear. I have a friend who lives in France for the school holidays and I could swear we only just spoke and she was there, and now again, she’s there, again. Could the time between Christmas and Easter have gone that quickly? Italy, South Africa, Sri Lanka, Suffolk, India…the list of their travels goes on. Here friends also travel, but it’s two weeks and not quite as rhythmic.

We went on our first real family road trip. I define this by having three out of four nights booked in hotels and not being able to tell other family which day we were actually returning. And, the fact that we were driving and our entire life was packed in the back of the car, just in case. I wasn’t totally convinced that Husband could flow with all of the activities I had planned, equally the kids I should add, but we arrived in San Fransisco and all eyes were wide open. ‘Wow’…

I could live in San Fransisco. It’s wonderfully visual and it seems to have everything one would want from a city, with a size that doesn’t inhibit. The boys were as excited with their hotel room as they were with going to Alcatraz – a must do trip for visitors. Alcatraz scares, acts, reacts…you can feel the claustrophobia, the hopelessness and the utter nastiness of the place. We wandered all over the city, ate really well and stayed at The Cliff hotel that was surprisingly suitable for kids. We left via Oakland – don’t ask, a town we had to recce for Husband’s TV show and the only real reason, unfortunately, to ever visit Oakland. We seriously asked five different people from shop owners to the concierge for a nice and/or interesting part to visit in Oakland and the replies we received were the same…’don’t go to Oakland.’

We did a drive-through on our way to Carmel, which felt perfectly formed in comparison. Give this family a beach to run around on and good food and we are seriously happy. We stayed at the Forest Tree Inn, another recommendation, and then drove down south along PCH. The west coast is gorgeous. The drive is deliberately slow with its twists and turns and can make you a bit car sick, but in return, it gives you a chance to see towns like Sand Town where, with the wind storm that occurred as we passed sprayed a dramatic backdrop to the mountains of sand that formed like a mini city. We nearly arrived in Cambria, our final stop before LA, when the boys in the back screamed, “Seals, seals!!” We pulled over and ran across the meadow to the beach. There, washed up on it, were hundreds of Pacific Harbour seal pups that had just been born. We ran to greet them, probably a bit too close looking back. Unbelievable. It felt like a day of reckoning; the Hamms, the seals, and Mother Earth, sharing this beach. Each mother protecting what’s hers, single minded in her instincts, ready to attack when necessary.

Then came Cambria. It seemed like a town you could very simply drive through and keep going. A group of Inns across from the beach that looked same same (a great Thai term that says everything). But Husband actually made the choice to stay…could he be relaxing, finally?? In no rush to go back, the boys went tide-pooling whilst we found a place to stay. We chose Sandpebbles Inn which had a balcony room facing the water that was hard to beat. We all went between the sand, the sea, the rocks and the room and discovered the most incredible fish restaurant called Seacrest next door to the Inn that rivals Scotts in London. I had three out of four boys swear they will eat Sea Bass when I make it at home. Note…they’re full of shit, I wasted $35 of beautiful bass last night!

The drive home through Highway 46 took us past the vineyards of Central California, seen in the movie Sideways. We so wanted to stop and taste. But the sound of four boys ready to transition to their home was too strong to ignore. There’s something very special about having an amazing family holiday where everyone really enjoys being together, and then equally can’t wait to get home and continue the experience. Home is where the heart is; so my heart is with my 5 boys and that makes home anywhere they are.

One of the most painful stages in school-life with your children is the waiting game to find out where they were accepted.  Who wants them???  I do.  But that doesn’t go very far.

Last week while the boys were playing outside, I saw the postman come to the door.  It was Saturday late morning and he was early.  My heart sank.  My pulse became rapid and I seriously thought I would throw up.  It’s not that I have a no-confidence vote for my son, it’s that we have been here before in London, a few years ago, and it was an excruciatingly awful experience trying to fit the circle of  what felt like my son’s very soul into a square, rigid, awkward peg.  He was shoved and pushed, this way and that, and all I could do was watch with horror.

So here we are in the Palisades, with schools ranging from very progressive to quite traditional, much more fitting for my unconventional son, and it’s taking all my strength to reach the front door.  I feel as though all of his self worth is wrapped up in these decisions.  Will he finally get in to a school that is on his list?  Will they see the beauty that he has?  Or will he be chucked out again, without much consideration or any sense of loss.

The postman walks away.  I’m watching him from the window.  I open the front door and stare at the box.  If there is a big envelope, he’s in.  If there’s a small envelope, he’s out.  The metal box was easily shut, so unless a packet was folded well, it’s not a good sign.  I open the box.  There is a local newspaper folded with other white envelopes draped around it.  Could he really have been chosen??

But as I unfold the mess of papers, my heart literally stops for a second.  There is nothing there.  Nothing!  Was it so bad they didn’t bother writing at all?  Wait, shit, wait, we’ve moved…surely I changed our address.  Think, think…uh, nope.  I didn’t.  How painful is this moment?  After the agonizing wait to get these friggin letters, I never even thought once to change our address with these schools.

My son comes to the door.  My face tells a story he can’t read.  “I didn’t get in, did I,” he said forlorn of all hope.  I was so mortified of my mistake I just threw my arms around him which, in that moment, probably made it worse for him.  I told him how I messed up and that it’s a sign for us to relax and know that he will go where he is meant to go.  Neither one of us really felt any better by my wise words because in the moment, accepting that things are meant to be as they should be felt more like a concept that is wise and beyond us; failure feels like failure and wanting something you can’t have feels like shit.

A few hours later my computer ‘bings’. It’s an email from one of his top choice schools. ‘Congratulations…you have been accepted to by part of the Class of 2016. By now you would have received our letter and forms in the mail….’ I scream to my son. This time he can read a different face, but still wonders what disappointment awaits. He very cautiously reads the email. “I got in? I got in!!!!” Apparently some schools send emails as well.

The moral of the story…well, honestly, how much easier is it for me to write that the moral is about believing that things are as they should be, that they will work out in the end, when my son did indeed get into a good school. I wonder what I would write if he hadn’t? What I know to be true, here and in London, is how hard it is to judge one’s child based on where they are and not where everyone else is; how tricky to stay in your own game with them.  For now, we celebrate that he finally gets to feel the academic accomplishment he deserves and make sure we regulate the critics that surround us all. The worst ones, of course, are in our head.

I could not survive in this world without my girlfriends. I have always been blessed with girls and then, women, in my life that make it shine. But I have never been so acutely aware of this fact until I began living my life in two places. I have sisters in two countries and friends that remain an integral part of my life no matter where I happen to be.  To sit with a friend, to catch up on what is real and what is worth dumping, what makes us happy and what is simply soulless drabble we should be letting go of; what to focus on and what to renounce, denounce, announce  is over and not worth fighting for is how I survive in all my chaos.   I rely on these friendships immensely and without shame.

Last week I traveled back to London, and then to Venice for a writing gig. I stayed with a friend who opened the door to my exhausted arrival and put me straight to bed with a bottle of water and a candle making the room smell sweet. What else does a true friend do than give you just what you really need?? We didn’t even gossip as she knew my mind would start spinning if I started to engage. I awoke to the hairdresser waiting to do my hair and lovely food to eat. Seriously?? From the cradle of my family I arrived to the bosom of female friendship, pun intended, which is always the next best thing.

The week was frenetic celebrating my gorgeous niece’s 21st. Black tie, marquee, the works. I danced the night away with boys half my age and had a crazy freedom on the dance floor that would have been wildly embarrassing to my children. But hey…who the hell was looking???? A bunch of 21 year old drunk boys from Exeter! It was fun not caring and having young men try and dance with me. My brother-in-law’s analysis was the most accurate; we ‘older folk’ couldn’t figure out what role we were playing at the party; we were too young to be their parents and too old to join in as equals. It was a funny equation which went from rap dances to Neil Diamond.

Then Venice. It was glamourous, elegant, inspiring and delicious. No wonder Lord Byron wrote many a poem there. He lived in a house that we were reviewing for LuxuryExplorer.com. This job carries with it a ridiculous privilege of staying in some of the world’s most sought after locations. I made it a point not to call home too often and get caught up in the rumble of the boy’s lives. I move mountains to go away for a week – 9 days actually if you ask me and two weeks if you ask Husband) – so there is truly no point in trying to micro-manage the bible of info I left from a gondola on the Grand Canal.

Back in London I reconnected with a few friends and felt instantly at home. I was worried, in fact, that I was going to visit my actual home and feel bereft for having left it, strange that another’s energy is filling it. But no, I didn’t experience any of that. I purposely didn’t cross the threshold of the front door when I stopped by to get my coat from storage, and only quickly eyed up the kitchen from the outside window. I just didn’t ‘go there’ in my mind. We need the rental money and I chose to thank my house for that rather than to dramatize my longing to be there. And that is where friends come in to play; the compassion and comfort of female bonding coupled with the ability to talk an issue through till I’ve exhausted it, makes Life’s curvy path endurable and promising.

I head back to LA feeling grounded and content that my life in London is not in jeopardy and my girls are still my girls.   In fact, it’s all pretty cool.

It’s 6:45 a.m. I awake to the sun in my face, literally, as we still have yet to decide on curtains or blinds. I wear an eye mask but that still doesn’t stop the sun rising and shining directly into my face. In a weird way, I don’t mind it, even though I could always use more sleep.

I get dressed and ready in less than five minutes and go upstairs to wake our boys. “Rise and shine,” I say repeatedly in their respective rooms. Each boy wakes up the same way, almost every single day. The eldest remains in bed the longest even though his is the first room I go to each morning. One of them always tells me he’s tired and not ready for school, another gets out easily as long as I tickle his back and one son slowly takes in the light coming into his room with a little smile for me.

I get breakfast underway whilst cat and dog figure out if they need to go out for a pee. Even the dog and cat have a mutual understanding of how the house works and when to ask for attention. The cat, by the way, who follows me absolutely everywhere, has inevitably made a lasting impression on me and I’m afraid I’ve fallen in love. I scramble the eggs knowing that three of my boys will be ready, fed, teeth brushed and out the door in twenty minutes, but one boy barely gets out of the shower as I watch his eggs go cold.

The conversation in the car turns to the new nanny situation. My son asks, “Are we having five-star Hannah try out today?” He read the rating system on the nanny website and now calls everyone by their star rating. “Five star Hannah turned out to be two and a half stars so nope, no Hannah.” They are all quite confused about who the new nanny is going to be as I took Husband’s advice and tried out a bunch of girls.

We get to school and before the boys pile out of the car, the sunscreen stick is applied to their tanned faces. They look like true LA boys: shorts, t-shirts and disheveled hair. All of a sudden my eldest comes back to the car. “Crap,” he says quite startled. “What is it?” I ask with my heart beginning to race a bit. “I forgot my shoes,” he admits slowly. “Your shoes?? How can you actually forget your shoes???” He looks at me not knowing if I’m going to scream or laugh. The cars behind are getting impatient. I do what any sensible mother would do and take off my running shoes, which are two sizes too small for him, and give them to him. In the end I find out that my shoes were way too painful and he had to borrow the Dean of the Middle School’s shoes. Only in LA…he’d be caned for sure in London!

I go about my day getting absolutely nothing done. Yes, I managed to shop at two different supermarkets, one vet trip and the pet store for specialty food. I cleaned my car out, paid some bills and worked out. But 8:30 in the morning turned into carpool time in the afternoon before I could even shower, or pretend to have a life. Back in the car the boys came, with stories of the playground mostly. Just before home the negotiating began. Little one says, “Can I do a sonnet from that guy who wrote that big book to get some tv time?” Now, let me explain. Husband has been reading Shakespeare on Sundays to the boys for months now out of a large compilation called ‘The Complete Works of Shakespeare. They are currently reading Romeo and Juliet and have to act it out, trading off who has to play Julia. But now, they have discovered that if they pick a sonnet and write it out, recite it and make an attempt at its meaning, daddy may let them have screen time during the week. It is hilarious to think that a seven year old thinks of Shakespeare as a guy who wrote a big book of strange words and if he copies them down, he’ll get to watch tv.

Dinner is normally a mix a my staple recipes involving some kind of meat with pasta or rice. In the event that I really couldn’t get anything done that day, there’s always take-out. They think it’s a treat to get a Panda Express and I view it as motherly laziness. Husband comes home for round two of dinner prep – yes, I do cook for him every night. I have usually eaten enough of the boy’s left-overs to be full and then have to eat another full meal with Husband to get our adult quality time in. I think that’s why I drink so much wine every night; who wouldn’t after two main meals?

Getting them to bed lately takes longer and longer. Little one won’t go to sleep unless he sees the others at least brushing their teeth. I want to say that I read to him every night but the truth is, what I do every night is sing with him. Every single night we sing two songs, the same ones since he was literally able to sing, and I scratch his back. And then the same for each of them. I find with all my boys they want to chat about very very personal things, thoughts or emotions, just as they’re slipping off into slumber. I used to think of it as a ploy to stay awake longer, but now I know it’s when they are at their most vulnerable and able to let go of their guards and share. It’s usually around 10:00 before I can relax and plop on the sofa. Double bill of Seinfeld leaves Husband and I laughing until the lights go off. It’s a weird form of meditation, Seinfeld, but it works as my mind enters a zone of total peace. Peace until 6:45 tomorrow morning, of course.

I had one of the most weepy days last week. It was definitely a combination of things: no sleep for too many nights in a row, on a very different page from Husband which doesn’t bode well with no sleep, Husband not feeling great which was causing the no sleep pattern, PMS and then the very dreaded high school application process kicking my butt. All of it culminated on one particular day and I felt as though I lost total control over my life. I am not a control freak but I am someone who relies on being able to have a conscious say in important moments. When it comes to applying to school, however, not only do I seem to have an inability to guide, control or even steer the process, but also I feel helpless, restless and very vulnerable.

I have gone through applying to schools in great depth in London and now in LA, and I am here to tell you that there is absolutely no difference between the two. They both suck. If you live in a major city where there is competition for most things, than make no mistake, sending your child to the right private school for him is harder than picking the right Husband!! Why? Because when you get that wonderful feeling that tells you that you’ve found the right one, the feeling is probably not mutual given the odds. London day schools were held like fresh, ripe carrots in front of my nose, dangling there with the smell of Spring in the air, enticing me to take a bite, and then ripped away with our hearts along side it, just as we chose which one we wanted. LA high schools are much the same, but slightly less obvious, as you’re lead to believe that every child really does get into their school of choice.

School of choice??? How about school on the ‘list’, and the list has to have enough choices so that you are guaranteed to get in to at least one of them. The ‘list’ consists of the school/s that you believe suit your child, combined with the school that doesn’t really fit your child but for whatever reason, be it it’s a public/state school with automatic entry or a newer private school that’s not yet competitive at entry, and you have to declare you are content with whatever Fate brings.

Now…there have been many times in life I have said, “It’s meant to be…It all happens for a reason…It’ll all work out in the end….” but I’m finding it incredible difficult to relinquish whatever little control I actually had over this situation (quickly realizing none at all) and let the chips fall where they must. In fact, when I received a call from our school asking if I was planning on adding any more ‘choices’ to our ‘list’ as we only had two, I said ‘no, I think we’ve picked the right schools’. That didn’t go down well and they were gobsmacked as to how stubborn and blind I was to the mechanics involved with making these lists. ‘All the other families have four and five and even six choices on their lists. You are the only family with two choices. You must have never done this before,’ they said.

Ha! In London I felt like we had 15 schools on our list, which got narrowed down and down and down to our final five. We spread ourselves so thin we nearly cracked under all the pressure and upkeep of test taking and interviews. So I thought, let’s focus, let’s be real about the choosing process and let a few schools know just how much we want our son to go there. Nope, apparently a really bad idea, so much so that the Head of School had to call me to tell me how ridiculous my approach was. It’s a numbers game and it looks like we are flunking the Maths section.

My friend emailed from London that she is currently ignoring everyone at the school gates because she can’t bear hearing how it’s going with other boy’s applications. She hides in her car till she can see her son and then quickly grabs him and pulls away. I know the feeling. Even when you think it’s all going really well, you almost don’t want to jinx it by chatting with others. The only solace in this process is this: for whatever reason, the angst and torture I felt last week has been replaced by a more care-free, calm self today. Nothing has changed other than my perspective shifting, again, and wanting to celebrate the spirit of my son rather than dwell on the misgivings. And it’s a damn happier place to be, that’s for sure; control, or no control.

I could write about many things this week from the mundane to the ridiculous. The Yurt remains at the center of it all, though; a physical presence I look towards at the end of the garden beckoning me to explore its radiance. I have never felt such power and such purpose. At the same time, there is a huge reshuffle with my days as my nanny is leaving next week. Our story together definitely had a beginning, middle and end, I just wouldn’t have written this particular ending. I have only had two other women help me with my boys in the last 14 years, and one of them I still employ! Perhaps I’m not that great at endings…

Voices from London tell me it’s gone cold. I so know what that means, and feels like. February people hunker down, stay in more and deal with the weather. I am aware when the oppressiveness kicks in because friend’s voices are slower, there are more sighs; it’s as if Time has divided into more frames per second and the minutia begins to irritate. So do the kids and husband, and trips get planned! To hear voices en masse saying the same thing sounds like a communal calling. Escapism. Here in LA, I must say to the annoyance of a few cold people, it’s gorgeous. The winter normally brings golden afternoons and not a lot of haze. The chill in the air is welcomed almost as a season unto itself, and the promise of rain excites those itching to ski. I am caught at the moment, somewhere between the two states – what’s new? – as the rhythm of a London’s winter used to make me feel my most creative but the color of it, depressed, so I’m picturing myself there a lot and then going outside and feeling the warmth of the sun when it all gets too much.

Too much…now that is also interesting. There have been more dramas I have been privy to in the last few months than ever before. Some of them self inflicted, others not, but all of them real. Deaths, medical scares, emotional breakthroughs and psychological challenges. Decisions to clear out and clean up the mess in one’s life and surveying the wreckage with an honest eye. This week got guzumped again by more medical crap and as I write, the only word that comes to mind is gratefulness. And back to the Yurt! Here’s where the Yurt plays its part: I’m able to tune in to a greater energy inside there which in turn, becomes the backbone of my sanity. Really. It’s the Church of the Yurt! At the moment, though, I’m its only member…

I never knew how much I loved my dog until we got our cat. Kitten, actually. I emphasize that for two reasons: first, they are supposed to be trainable and secondly, it needs friggin training! Husband and I are dog people. What that means for us is that we enjoy having a pet that you can exchange emotions with, one that you can understand and interact with, a pet that you can take out for a poo.

It was Husband’s idea to say yes to the kitten when we went to our friend’s house and they showed us their four, brand new kittens. All of our boys fell in love and I must admit, they were pretty darn cute. How could you say no to an 8 inch fluffy toy?? Easily, my mom would say. My mom came over, btw, and had a complete disco freak out announcing she was allergic to our black magic cat called Ziggy (yes, as in Marley). She is so not allergic but is also not a cat person so I secretly understand. I’m desperately trying to connect to our newest addition and my boys study my reactions to make sure I’m not going to secretly leave the door open to the vast amounts of cayotes that await their daily prey. Ziggy follows me around everywhere, which is sweet, I guess. He sleeps during the day and drives my dog crazy by night. Scarlet thinks we’re devilish by making them sleep together in the garage, that’s where the animals belong at night says Husband…she looks exhausted every morning!

They sleep in the garage for one very good reason: poo. One morning Husband and I were trying to get over our cat annoyances and bond with our new kitty, and began playing with him on our bed. He was doing tumble flips and really showing off his minx skills when all of a sudden, Ziggy paused…and pooped…all over our duvet cover. Funny how no one ever mentions cats can do this – they’re soooo independent, you won’t have to do anything – until you say it happened and THEN they admit, ‘yes, well, yes, they can mark their territory and indeed spray all over your house if you’re not careful’. What????!!!! How are you meant to monitor their peeing when it blends into the litter and the litter stinks like pee to begin with!

I will say one thing, Ziggy licks himself all the time. The only time Scarlet ever licks herself is to, well, you know. I suppose if I could bend that low…

Moving on, it’s the week of the Yurt. I began the series in my yurt a few days ago with Cari, the most restorative, incredible yoga instructor I’ve had. She’s a dear friend who now lives in New York and I took the opportunity to initiate – activate – the space with her tuition. The first class was filled with a massive easterly wind blowing off the sea, howling around the walls of the circle as Cari’s voice guided us through poses and meditation. I cried during meditation, and so did my sister and my friend, as the center of ourselves were awakened. As Cari put it later, when you emotionally react to meditating, it’s probably because you tap into your inner self and realize you haven’t seen Her for a long time. Tomorrow is session two and already I’m finding that space to focus on, again.

I am box free. Finally. And I haven’t been able to write until I could write just that, as order needed to be restored before my brain could compute words again. Back in LA in our new home. There’s a space for all of us here which is why I can see this house in our future for a long, long time. And then there’s the yurt! After some serious contemplation during the holidays, I feel like the yurt is a physical manifestation of a lot of my wishes; as if my birthday wish, the one that has nothing to do with others or anyone’s health,the one that comes just before you blow out the candles and remember ‘oh shit, I should wish for something for me!’ has come true. I wanted a center to my creative energy and it came in a very large, round wooden structure.

I’m at a moment in my life where things could go in many different directions. Having just spent two weeks awakening my English soul, I returned a bit more fragmented this time; the delicate balance of my pushing and pulling is slightly wobbly. I felt rushed in London and now I find myself wanting to take my time, even with the horrid boxes, to place rather than shove my belongings into an interesting position. Got to move like Jagger…bend it like Beckham…the images go on!

I’m just feeling the flow of things right now and I want to do it all a bit differently, push the boundaries on what is safe and explore more. Husband looks at me strangely and yet is intrigued enough to enter the yurt and bow, yes, bow. So who knows, this could be a spiritual awakening for all involved.

London, Xmas season. Christmas is truly a season here. Cocktail parties every night of the week give way to dinner parties followed by family get-togethers the closer Christmas comes. It’s dark at 3:45 so the twinkly lights begin from half way through your shopping day and carol singers gather on the high street corner in the midst of all the chaos. There is an energy of celebration in London, even with the end of the financial year taking on the role of Scrooge. The life of this season reaches further than the pound can anyway. Maybe it’s the coming together of the cold and picturesque city covered in tinsel, the roaring fires, the bare trees dancing next to iced ponds, even all the pubs look warm and cozy…Christmas just suits London.

Walking into our home was exhilarating. The boys raced up and down and all around the house finding their toys, rediscovering their rooms and screaming up and down the lane for our neighbors to come out and see them. They couldn’t be happier. Last time our arrival was disastrous with the stolen bag so this time for some weird reason I decided to deal with my lost-in-the-LA-move mobile and get straight on the phone with Vodafone. Husband looked at me like I was an idiot, and he was right. I couldn’t be more tired, and emotional, and yet had to deal with a corporation and their customer service in India, now?? Well, I did and then I went upstairs and collapsed into bed.

Part of having Husband travel before me that is incredible is how he sets up the house – market, heating, the works – so we can all arrive and relax. However hard it is traveling with four boys on my own, the trade-off comes when I can nap, wake up to a cooked meal and then just hang out. Apparently the weather’s been mild throughout November and even to our beach bones, it’s not that bad now. We went out for dinner and there were fourteen variations of mushrooms on the menu which had to do with the mild autumn. I love being somewhere small enough that you’re eating the results of that month’s weather.

We have two weeks here to see, touch, taste everything which is way too short and now I write at the end of it all feeling quite bereft as time has ticked by all too quickly. From the moment I arrive at Heathrow, I unzip my European self and step out of my skin into a new one. I am myself, but different. And so are my boys. Each of them shifts into their English behaviour, playing and watching endless football matches, taking the bus everywhere on their own, spending their pounds at the Newsagent buying Lucazade sports drink and eating Shreddies. Even the Tooth Fairy becomes English, so says my little one who currently has no front teeth.

Our Xmas celebration is a four day extravaganza spent at my sister-in-laws. They cook every meal, we drink from midday and delight in doing absolutely nothing but talking, walking, eating, dancing to the odd Neil Diamond song, and boozing it up. The kids flop alongside us and the time is completely spent relaxing. There aren’t a lot of families who can live in eachother’s pockets without any dramas for that long, and we all cherish it.

The rest of our days were spent at home, when Monday became Wednesday and now it’s New Year’s Day. We finally landed a tenant after the last one fell through which meant that I have spent the majority of my time packing this week. And crying. Weeping, actually, on one day in particular. A friend said that the tears represent my emotional attachment to every little thing in my house because I no longer live here, thus the importance placed on material items. She’s not wrong, but I’d add that there is significant meaning in my ‘stuff’ here because it’s 20 years of all the stages of my life here, and when Husband declared either store it or throw it, it became very clear that I wasn’t ready to purge.

I lied to him and said that yes, it’s been beneficial to clear out and get rid of stuff, but the truth is I hoard, I’m a hoarder, and purging/throwing/chucking/clearing out my belongings isn’t part of my nature. How can I possibly throw out my collection of random wrapping paper that I will definitely use one day, and equally, how can I pay to store it which makes no financial sense either???

In the end, meaning literally now as I have packed my last box, I cheated and stuffed my tiny attic with so much I’ll never be able to find anything in order to avoid the demonic notion of choosing between expensive storage and dumping. It all feels relevant; all pieces to my life’s puzzle. Okay, except the Batman with the missing limbs. I’ll give Husband that one.

And tomorrow it’s back on the plane to LA where our new home awaits. I feel like I’m leaving in the middle of something. Just as life takes off here I must go. My two worlds are only one day apart and I’ll be sleeping tonight at the beach. Surreal, really. And all very real indeed.

Happy New Year and thanks for reading.