Am I the only one with a wandering heart that makes it hard to be happy where I am?
I can’t help imagining that it would be so much easier to eat organic if we lived abroad. Or, since it’s so much cheaper if you’re already overseas, that we’d travel more. Generally, that our quality of life would be exponentially better.
Especially now that I have a taste of living abroad. Life seemed simpler, more fulfilling, and quieter. It seemed less hectic, commercial, and politically-charged. It’s so tempting to go back and never leave again. I’d take my family with me. My little, three-person, nuclear family.
But as willing as I am to sell my car, my bed, and all my pots & pans, immigration is a bitch. Work visas are next to impossible to get and I have a two-year-old to support.
I did the math, I really did. Like repeatedly. But between saving for a yearly Christmastime flight back to the States and daycare–even factoring the 600 hours per annum the Scottish government pays for–the numbers were never in our favor.
But dammit they were so close. And that’s what kills me. Makes me wonder if in another two years it might just be feasible.
So do I bank on those two years? Get a job–instead of building a career–and save every penny for the £4,000 overhead? Postpone getting my masters here so I can do it in the Highlands? Wait for Penelope to get two more years’ worth of attachment to her grandparents and aunts?
I’ve always had this feeling when it comes to Penelope that the clock is already ticking so fast. I have this urge to pop open the glass, turn the hands back, and start over because I didn’t do it right the first go around. I didn’t take monthly milestone photos with a stuffed animal for measure. I didn’t even live in a finished house.
I’ve worked to accept–and appreciate–how everything happen(ed/s). But it’s so hard.
And this idea of studying abroad hit me at the most vulnerable point in my ‘career.’ I’ve just finished college after four and a half long years. I’ve just been rejected from my choice grad school. Our lease is almost up. I’m scrambling to find a job.
| In. My. Field. |
I feel unqualified for everything. So I want to run away to Scotland and hide amongst the sheep. [And sip tea in the Elephant Cafe, where J.K. wrote HP, obviously.]
Of course, even if we did fly across the Atlantic, I’d miss my family terribly and worry I was emotionally damaging my daughter. I’d worry our nuclear unit would put too much strain on my marriage. I’d worry my husband would resent me for our self-inflicted poverty (even though he seemed super psyched by the IT apprenticeship/bachelors program).
Pros and cons.
Pros and cons.
Pros and cons.
In the end, my husband and I decided together–after much (surprising!) effort and research on his part–that we would have to settle for an international trip once a year because we didn’t want to put our lives on hold hoping we’d be accepted to Edinburgh Napier University.
The night we decided this, I felt at peace because we had explored the possibility so fully, so completely. Yet by the morning I kept surfing the web for things like ancestry visas and study abroad scholarships and expat blogs.
It’s hard to put dreams to rest. It’s hard to choose a path.
It’s hard to stop wondering if the juiciest fig is withering because I didn’t pick it.
Or if I should pick it and put it in the icebox to keep.
Or if someone else has already long since eaten it.
Or if figs spoil faster than plums in the long run.
It’s hard to vow to eat plums the rest of your life when you’ve never even tasted a fig.
Or worse, when you have.