The Art of Leaving

Once, 7 years ago, Ian and I went to Beijing.  We took our baby Julie with us.  She was 9 months old when we left and a little over a year old when we returned.  Needless to say, she was little.

It was February and Beijing was cold, and big, and smelly, and loud.  Everywhere was rush hour. I didn't know a soul in that city of millions of people besides my husband.  I couldn't speak to anyone, except to ask them about their health.  For some reason in Mandarin 101, that was the phrase that stuck. "How is your health?" Oddly enogh, there aren't a lot of opportunities to use that phrase in passing conversation.

Ian would happily scamper off to school every morning at 8 am, with his backpack. I was left to fend for myself and my baby.  I had to shop for our food.  The market near our house was only open in the morning, so I had to do it or we didn't eat.

Listen, I know I am a spoiled American girl who has sort of had my life handed to me compared to most people in the world, but still.  I was miserable.

The world was so cold. I wanted the food I knew.  The language I knew.  The people I knew. I didn't know how I could possibly be happy where I was.  As though happiness was found in a place. Every night I would go to bed.  "Ian, I survived the day.  I'll most likely leave you in the morning."  He would say he loved me and hoped we would meet again one day.

I remember one night I picked the opening song for our Family Home Evening.  "Ian, we are singing Come, Come Ye Saints, the "and if we die verse."

I didn't leave. I stayed.  I watched movies in English and  English soccer with Chinese commentators to pass the time. Eventually the weather warmed up.  I learned more Chinese.  I could answer questions about my baby. I met the cutest couple at the market where I would buy potatoes.  They had a cute baby, too. Someone else sold flat bread that reminded me of tortillas.  I made beans in a crockpot.  Summer came and I couldn't even imagine being cold.  And there were mangoes.  I ate mangoes every day for two months.  Happiness may possibly be found in mangoes. Life got better.  Beijing wasn't so bad.  There were even things I loved. Like the pearl market.

Then we flew home.

Back to my familiar world. Surprisingly, life still gets hard.  Even though China was epecially difficult for me, life is still hard in America. Sometimes, I still want to leave. My house is dirty, and my kids are yelling, and I feel so nutso. Sometimes, I do leave. To the park.  I take my kids. Then I come back.

Then we eat popscicles.

Here's the thing.  Happiness isn't found in a location.  Not a geographic one.  Not a place. And leaving?  There's a time and a place for leaving,  I suppose. But, frequently, I think leaving is about blaming.  I could blame Beijing for my unhappiness and then walk away from that blame. Or I could have blamed Ian.  Or my baby. Or the cold.  Or the food. Neither Beijing or Ian or anything else were to blame. I was having a hard time. Me. It was me.

And, I take me everywhere.