It’s hard to imagine that an aunt would leave her homeland with her core seven little confused faces remaining behind. My goal was only a temporary one, two years max, as life after university was a meaningless job; I was living 3,000 miles from the Big Apple’s advertising hub. But the truth be told, by fourteen years old, a little bug in my ear kept telling me to wander off to parts unknown – probably to escape the bin lids banging during a civil protest in the wee hours of the night. And at the ripe old age of late teens, I was free to backpack, navigate working visas, and grab some friends to explore how other folks lived in foreign lands. Traveling was easy as there was no sign of homesickness and no twinges of regret. Plus, it wouldn't be long until I was home and cart-wheeling in the park with my wee folk. Suddenly, something magically happened in the concrete jungle of New York City—I felt strangely at home.
With my internal compass magnetized towards the Americas, spreading the news that I was heading off for a few years, just simply didn’t compute to my lolly-pop-licking nephews and nieces. Why should it? I was always just a grannies house away. So the news a simple matter-of-fact, like Auntie was going on another vacation.
Arriving at this strange land, I swore the plane miscalculated and landed in Russia in December. This freezing October day in the northeast USA felt like living in a refrigerator. Not exactly what I thought when starting a new life in a place similar to my home country; little did I know that something else would compete with the thermal-wearing temperatures that a new driving license and heated wheels could not fix.
As a Thanksgiving virgin, I immediately fell in love; Christmas was a colossal feast of American yumminess without the chaos of gifting consumerism. But my customary three and sometimes four types of potatoes on one plate was reduced to one or none. All this joyful spirit, amber warmth, and ochre-falling leaves seemed to attract a dark cloud in my direction. My family was nowhere near. A drop-by to a sibling’s house for a cup of stewed tea was an ocean away. A hug, kiss, and wee folk squeeze began to gnaw at my soul. It was unheard of to ask for time off at my career-path job after being hired two months earlier. So, as the weeks came up to my first Christmas away from the motherland, a pinhole developed on my upper body. It was a foreign feeling, like an odd pang that began to swing like a pendulum—creating a new life or returning home to the wee folk.
Wisdom tells us that no one gets a free pass from life's pendulum of pangs that seem married to major life decisions. The joys they bring seem mirrored by the loss. We simply find ways to stop swinging so wildly as we settle in.