Home is where the heart is . . .

I visited with my sisters over the last week or two - a visit that was long overdue and which taught me much. This morning, as I sat to write about the lessons learned, I looked up a word on my computer and found this essay, from a visit home four years ago.

As I wrote  below, and a slogan every Kiwi knows from a television commercial, good things take time. That's not to say this piece is a good thing yet, but it may become one when its time is right.

For now, it gives some background to the next, "Going Home" blog post . . .

tangata whenua

(noun) local people, hosts, indigenous people of the land - people born of the whenua, i.e. of the placenta and of the land where the people's ancestors have lived and where their placenta are buried.  – Te Aka Maori Dictionary online

That Maori have the same word for land as we do for placenta demonstrates the visceral attachment we have for the land. The earth itself is Papatuanuku, our earth mother. Our creation myth has Papa and her husband, Ranginui, the sky father, forced from a loving embrace by their mature sons who craved space to grow. The rain is Rangi weeping at his separation from Papa and the morning dew is her crying for him.

When we whakapapa, or recite our genealogical line, as we do on all important occasions, we start with the land (“My mountain is …”).  That is followed by our waterways (“My river is …”), and only after that the waka (canoe) in which our ancestors traveled to Aotearoa, our iwi and hapu (tribe and sub-tribe), our parents and, finally, ourselves.

But somewhere along the way, I lost my whakapapa, and in doing so lost a true sense of who I was and where I belonged. 

I left my family home at age 15, my home town a year or two later and departed my country while still in my teens. I came home at age 30 to belatedly attend university, but chose to do so in Te Wai Pounamu, the South Island of New Zealand, not Te Ika o Maui, the North Island where my family resided. By that time I had realized I was more at ease with my mother if I kept a vast body of water between us. Previously it had been oceans that protected me but the Cook Strait seemed wide enough to suffice.

I remained in Aotearoa, the Maori name for New Zealand, for about seven years that time, completing my degree then working for a regional daily newspaper. Two and a half years as a reporter taught me to write every day, whether the mood presented itself or not, and a stint as a copy editor taught me to write more clearly. Then I left the country again, adding more countries and cultures to my life experience.

Now, even though I can find the words of my whakapapa easily enough, I have a need to connect in a more fundamental way and to find my way home. I need to be grounded in a very literal way, to the soil, the people and the country where I have turangawaewae – a place to stand. I’ve never been to my home marae  – the iwi or hapu meeting place that is the heart of Maoridom. 

Marae are a combination of a place of worship, a meeting place, a museum, town hall, event venue, classroom and family home. It is the place where family health should be nurtured but also where any family dysfunction is first felt. The home marae is the physical representation of turangawaewae, and a healthy relationship with it and the whanau (family) allows us to travel the world. It is the anchor that holds us to our land.

But as any New Zealander knows, good things take time, and I’m in no hurry to get there. I’m also finding my personal whakapapa in unexpected places, as I renew acquaintance with my New Zealand whanau, who I am related to both by blood and choice. 

Part of my whakapapa resides in Dunedin, where I attended university and created surrogate families, as I am wont to do all over the world. Coming home after so long away has made me realize that we each have our own whakapapa, and that although my siblings and I share the same ancestors and written whakapapa, the different paths taken since birth create different personal whakapapa. Mine now adds in whanau in other countries, who have helped nurture and form me as much as my blood whanau have. My U.S., Korean and Indonesian whanau are as valid a part of my whakapapa as those connected by the accident of birth.

I look forward to traveling my country this summer, writing about the places I go, the people I meet and the country I no longer know. Aotearoa – literally “land of the long white cloud” as that is the first sight my Maori ancestors had from their massive waka on first arrival – is my first home and I am excited at the gifts and learning I will find here.

Downtime . . .

I'm not sure how it works for others but, for me, being in limbo creates a stultifying lethargy. I'm almost always excited to set sail in uncharted waters but while waiting to cast off, I feel anxious and unproductive. I guess I'm more a person of action than I realized.

So, although I have had the past two months off work after leaving my last place of employment, they have been among the most unproductive of the year, in terms of physical and mental health and writing. Despite all the time I had in which to write, I barely blogged or freelanced, although I did do some interviews for future features and kicked my own butt enough to complete one article I'd wanted to do for a while (which, once I sat down to do it, took surprisingly little time). Mostly though, I just waited for decisions by others - a situation I am not at my best in.

Not surprisingly, the moment I made decisions for myself - to move to Australia, probably take a deckhand position on a yacht up north and visit with family and friends - the positive energy attracted other positives, including a job offer that would start next month. This month, although I still am not working, I'll be constantly traveling and exploring and once again embracing and enjoying life, and will no doubt find more time to write than when I was doing nothing.

The great thing about the potential job is that my early mornings, when I write best, would be free. With an 1100 start each day and the stimulus I get from being gainfully employed and otherwise active, I imagine I'll soon be writing up a storm.

Watch this space . . .

View from Hanging Rock, Victoria, Australia.

(Note: The article referred to above can't be linked to until it has been published by the buyer, which should be later this month.)

A bittersweet goodbye . . .

As I prepare, once again, to leave Korea, I can't help but reflect back on all the good and bad I have experienced here. It's been more than 12 years since I first came here and in that time I have witnessed many changes and experienced many changes in myself, many facilitated by the people I have met and shared time with here.

I have made many friends while here, many who have become whanau and will be part of my life no matter where I journey. I've found love and realized that isn't always an easy journey in itself, especially when one has spent almost half a century independent and unemcumbered. Learning the responsibilities that come with commitment to another is a steep learning curve and I've made many a glaring mistake as I try to balance my dreams with another's realities and existing obligations.

That's a story that is yet to be completed, I trust.

I've learned much from my jobs here and believed I've grown in my writing and understanding of others (with the exception of the above-mentioned glaring mistakes, that is). I've been privileged to work with some of the best writers in Korea and to number many wonderfully creative people, both Korean and expats, as dear friends and respected colleagues. I've watched young friends grow and develop and attain great things in the  crucible of South Korea where change is rapid yet tradition remains strong.

But, it feels my time here has finally come to an end (although friends tease me I will be back, and I've learned never to say never). I've been here too long and have fallen into lazy habits I dislike. It is time for a new challenge and new horizons, although I will begin those by returning to the bosom of my family while I plan the next adventure.

It's also strange, that after so much of my life spent excited by the thought of stepping into the unknown with only what I can carry, I've found myself nervous this month about doing just that. Perhaps it's just the cold and a seasonal illness that has me down, there's also much yet unknown that I would like to plan but can only wait on for now. But I remembered that freedom again yesterday, and that there are thrift shops and stores in most parts of the world and that possessions are merely that - possessions. When they become more than that, they start to possess you.

So I'm happier in myself, again.

I'm also very sad today that a much-loved friend lost his best friend today, and my heart breaks for him and his family. The only solace I can offer, apart from my thoughts and prayers is a quote I've cited here before:

Grief is the price we pay for love.

I believe the reward is worth the steep price, no matter how much it hurts . . .

Happy Random Date Change day . . .

I'm annoyed by a few things today, while wanting to laugh them off as unimportant (and they are)

BUT, they need to be called out:

Korea Exchange Bank - which advertises itself as the best option for Expat banking in South Korea.

Backstory: Korea does not trust foreigners, therefore a "credit card" is in reality a debit card, where you get credit on the amount you have on term deposit. That's not an issue for me as I don't like to spend money I don't have anyway.

BUT: I'm about to purchase an expensive air ticket, so needed to extend my credit limit. Simple thing, I'd been told, just put more in the term deposit.

Korea - I wish you were that simple . . .

Went to the bank, where the clerk had no idea what I was talking about, but asked me to stand aside while she called people. While I stood aside, she dealt with one other foreign customer.

She made the calls, invited me back, explained things I already knew, then told me I had no money in my account to transfer. I had just checked my balance and she was wrong. I handed her my savings/debit card to check, and it didn't match the credit card she was looking at.

She had given my credit card to the previous customer, and kept hers,

They phoned the woman, who was very annoyed ("Every time I come here, you get something wrong . . . ") then came back to me.

Yes, I'm being tolerant of your ineptitude, and trying to stay nice . . .

The bank clerk then demanded my ARC (Alien Registration Card - we have to register). I gave her the immigration paperwork that said they have it until Jan. 11 and which immigration  told me is legally the same, and she would not allow me to transfer my own money from one account to another.

At that stage, I could have asked for a manager and growled but I think it's probably a better idea to stop dealing with Korean banks.

Have yourself a simple little Christmas . . .

Some of the most difficult gifts to find in the hi-tech, high-paced, high-pressure world in which we now live cost the least.

Simplicity. Peace. Acceptance. Contentment. Gratefulness. Generosity. Selflessness. Charity. Openheartedness.

It's not that most of us don't have all these qualities within us, it's just that we often lose touch with them as we strive for goals that are far less rewarding. It's all too easy to get caught up in what the world expects of us and fail to recognize what makes us truly happy.

Loving relationships, with friends, family and significant others. Good health. Self-love. The satisfaction of a job well done. The warmth that comes from helping others.

The stressors of everyday life build at Christmas and times of other celebrations for many, particularly in a time when the economy is bad and parents, especially, feel pressure to purchase the latest gadgets their children absolutely MUST have to keep up with their peers. (Consider the joy of a child more excited by the wrapping or box a gift comes in than the expensive toy it contained and it is obvious that excessive greed is taught, by parents, peers and society, rather than innate.)

I've personally experienced the despair of a parent who felt unworthy at not being able to provide more at Christmas and witnessed the pain it caused to not live up to the expectations, not of her children, but of "societal norms."

Unlike the founder of the Occupy movement, I'm not advocating a boycott of gift-giving. For myself, however, I find more meaning in a meal cooked with love, a hand-made note or the gift of time with loved ones than the most expensive trinket or latest piece of gadgetry.

This Christmas, I was blessed. The only gifts I unwrapped were cakes baked by a wonderful friend, which I then had the joy of sharing with others. I was given the gift of a place to stay in the countryside, surrounded by beauty, and the space and time to rediscover the qualities within myself that I'd lost touch with in my last job and busy city life and constant rushing from place to place. I spoke with family, friends and loved ones, both digitally and by phone, and shared in the joy of others around the world.

And relearned, physically, what I've always believed but sometimes lose the meaning of in the bustle of being - that life is an adventure, not an ordeal. A gift, not an obstacle.

This morning, I woke to a clear crisp day but no hot water, so walked through the woods to my friend's house to shower, with the sun rising behind me and speckling my path. In doing so, I startled three deer into flight, and marveled at their beauty and vitality.

It was a morning gift I would never have received if not for an inconvenience that I could have let upset me but that in the grand scheme of things was insignificant.

I will try to stay connected to that simplicity when I go back to the world of work . . .

the cover photo . . .

I have been offline for a few weeks, traveling, visiting with friends, reading a lot.

Thinking, remembering, still trying to stay in touch.

Remembering . . .

My cover photo, pretending to be a food vendor, was taken at the JW Marriott restaurant where, in July 2009, suicide bombers targeted a Western breakfast meeting. The Ritz-Carlton, just across the road, was also bombed. Where I was working, blocks away, we heard and felt the aftershock and initially thought it was an earthquake.

It was, but of a different breed . . . .

When they reopened the hotel and restaurant, I wanted to show support, and did, . . .  

Here's the review

The perils of a peripatetic lifestyle . . .

When one door closes, many more open.

That does not necessarily mean you want to step through them all.

As I consider my next adventure in life and, more importantly, how best to fund it with an income means that both interests and challenges me, I've been offered an editing gig in a field that fascinates me. The problem is, because of the level of the employer, the application form requires much the same level of information as needed for a security clearance, including every address and place of travel for the past 10 years, plus detailed information about my family members.

It's times like this I realize that my life is a little outside of the "norm" -- whatever that is.

Apart from the extra pages I would need for my addresses alone (my mother used to joke she had a separate phone book just for me), the prospective employer wants explanations for any time between jobs. That's a book in the making.

"I had nothing more pressing so spent five months doing farm, orchard and vineyard work in New Zealand, then flew to the U.S., borrowed a motorbike and spent three months riding 6,000 miles and talking with folks."

OR, "I finished a contract in January and wanted to go to a bike rally in North Carolina in May, so volunteered in Thailand for three months while waiting."

It's just as well they're only asking for the past 10 years. That puts a statute of limitations on the '93 gig where I crewed my passage across the Indian Ocean, starting in Thailand, switching yachts in Sri Lanka and stopping off in the Maldives and the Seychelles before making landfall in Kenya. Where I traveled for two months before heading back to the "developed" world.

Then there are the countries I've visited - 20 at last count, I think. Including at least six trips to the United States in that time period. And, no, I really don't recall the exact dates or ports of entry and departure for each trip I've made in the past decade, particularly as I've transited through a hub every time on my way to my destination.

I'm not sure whether the resulting application would have me rejected out of hand as a potential spy or have someone trying to recruit me as one.