Keeping in touch.

When I first moved over here, two whole years ago now, I probably spoke to friends and family more than I had when I lived in their country. Our country. Phone calls, emails, facebook updates, blogs, even the occasional card sent in the actual post (although more likely, written and never posted because I'm crap like that). We kept in touch - I knew about their days, the minor things that had happened, the major things. And they knew about mine - knew that I hated the clock that ticked or what clothes purchases I'd made or what I was planning for dinner.

Then life here began to gain momentum. I volunteered, started learning to drive, we got Starz and Showtime in our cable package  (and with it the US version of Shameless, which is awesome, along with Spartacus [essentially just porn in togas] and Camelot [porn in tights] and multiple on demand films), we moved house and got a cat (who yet remains nameless, or namefull because he has about 10 and counting). But throughout all of this, while maybe not as much as those first new months, I managed OK at keeping in touch. I visited England regularly enough, went home via Switzerland once to meet my godson, had multiple coffees in Paddington Station and curries on brick lane. I phoned, emailed, blogged, g-chatted, facebooked and failed to post letters I'd written.

And then I got a job.

The job has tipped the balance rather. Two hours spent commuting in traffic, 40 hours spent emailing and organizing volunteers (ok maybe not all 40 - I spend a fair amount of time visiting volunteers, playing with children, cleaning toys and the occasional trip out to buy coffee / diet coke / iced tea etc etc) so that when I get home I don't want to talk or write or type and time slips through my fingers and suddenly it's tuesday again and I'm back in a hotel/homeless shelter (when the shelters are full they spend $1000s housing people in hotels - one room for a family, no cooking facilities, no transport, no case-management -  when they could pay their rent for much much cheaper) playing with children and thinking about coffee.

Friends, I'm sorry. A feeling of helpless inadequacy has been simmering away of late. The emails I've failed to respond adequately to (if at all), the phone calls I've neglected to return. Life here is full but not to the point where I don't need the people I have in England (or New York, or California, or Attenschwiller) not even close to that point.

So, a concerted effort is going to be made. Birthday cards and presents posted, emails written, phone calls made. It's going to happen because it has to happen - because the second I feel those relationships fading, a part of me begins to fade.

I know that no letters or phonecalls make up for an hour, a minute of no-pressure time (the type of time where you know you'll see the person again and again, soon and sooner, so that there is no weight on the minutes you have). I know that. I just prefer not to think about it.

A recent attempt to cross the miles. It's not the same as a hug.