D.P.

Tonight I returned from a quick impromptu trip to the Geneva area. While there it was somewhat summer-like, on the 3rd train (out of 5) I had to trade my shorts for jeans, and when train #4 pulled out of the tunnel and into the valley, it was pouring. I had to add the parka to the other two layers. It's raining, cold, the clouds are hanging down the sides of the mountains and I am having a tough time.

I am alone for the first time since July 17. I guess I am a sociable being after all. Tonight feels lonely. I miss Claire and my sisters, and I am sorry I could not attend Martin's 60th birthday party where, I am sure, so many of my friends were. I am a D.P. or a Displaced Person. Of course I am very mindful that I have nothing to complain about. The weather is lousy, but I am safe with a good roof over my head and food in the fridge. My heart goes out to the Pakistani. Yet, the fact that millions of people are so much worse off than me, doesn't make my predicament any easier.

I had been impatiently waiting for my sisters to visit so we could make decisions with respect to the apartment. And we did. We are going to put it on the market and hope that it will sell by spring. I know it needs to happen, but it signals the end of my stay here. That of course raises the big question of what will come next. I have decided to again rent my house when the current tenants leave because it's welcome income. It means, however, that I cannot return to my house in Portland and it forces me to be creative about my next steps. I cannot envision returning to Portland with an unemployment rate of over 10% and therefore basically no hope of finding work. Once the apartment is sold I cannot stay in the valley either, because I cannot afford to buy anything else with my share of the sale. Which is the reason for my trip to the lowlands. I need to explore other options than Portland or Zuoz.

So, although I am still here in my cozy apartment, I am already grieving for it. I am grieving for my life in Portland, I am grieving for my lost job, for my dad, and starting now, for this valley and the new life I have created here for myself. How can I be a D.P. at my mature age?

I thought I had it made. I had it all. Good job, great kids, cute little house, nice garden, health, friends, a beautiful natural environment. I liked my life and was acutely aware, especially since my return from Africa, how privileged I was. And yes, much worse could have happened. But still, I lost the life I loved and was so comfortable with. I lost the job and voluntarily gave up the remainder. I thought it was a temporary time out, an adventure. Yet, in the back of my mind, I knew that I was playing with fire. Can one ever go back to things as they used to be? Everything I was taking for granted is now uncertain. The raspberries I planted before abandoning my garden, the humming birds going back and forth between the feeder and the plum tree, the sea breeze on summer nights, dropping in at my neighbors for a cup of tea, running into friends at the Hillsdale farmers market. Should I completely give up on skiing on Mt. Bachelor with Marianne, and the mochas at the end of the day? When will I again load up a good rig to drive across the mountains into the sagebrush country with a friend at my side providing exciting conversation and healthy perspectives on life? How important is it for me to head out into the Coast Range in the fall to collect enough chanterelles to concoct a yummy meal for a friend? Can I be happy without the hope to spot a cinnamon teal? Will I miss the frenetic December baking and then doing the rounds of my friends with the cookie plates, thereby acknowledging who is important in my life and adds value to it? What about the environmental community, these old friendships cemented by our common hope to save the planet despite all odds? And how can I live so far from the people I love the most, my kids? Can I be without Thanksgiving and the family Christmas, the comings and going of kids, and partners, and friends, and relatives of all of the above? Will I fall apart if I destroy the canvass of my life?

Here I am, all by myself, with nothing to hold on to, except my sense of myself. Everything that defined me has receded into the past. I thought I would easily recreate it all after a hiatus in Switzerland but now I fear that nothing will ever again be the same. I don't have a choice. I have been swept away by a current and I don't know on what island it will deposit me. I trust that it will be beautiful and that I will grow to love it and to accept it as my new home and life. But there is much pain and grief in letting go of a life that I used to describe as perfect.

All this would be exciting if I still were in my twenties, a time in life when I wanted to see new places and discover both the world and who I am. I have already been around the block a couple of times and now I'd like to reap the fruits of the life I have so carefully constructed. Nomads travel with their tribes. I have to do it alone.

These are painful questions and thoughts I am facing as I am trying to figure out the next step in my life. I could take it the easy way and return to Portland with the hope that my savings will last for the rest of my life. But what would I do with the rest of my life? As much as I loved my life in Portland, I will not be able to rebuild it as it was. Worse, I don't think I can rebuild it in Portland - at least not now.

Just in case you thought I spent the week moping around, despite the above reflections that was not the case. Here are a few pictures to reassure you that I am still having fun:

1: Summer hike with my sisters. This is not mountaineering, but what should have been a walk in flower-studded fields. We hiked for 3 hours in a foot of fresh snow. Brigitte (living in Switzerland) is on the left, Francoise (now splitting her time between Australia and Switzerland) in on the right.

2: The next day we got soaked in a thunderstorm above the tree line.

3: Parasails on Lake Silvaplana.

4. The sweetness of a summer night on Lake Geneva.