To Jeremy, on three years of marriage

I was scared. I didn't know what it'd be like, what we'd be like and I didn't like not knowing. And forever seemed such a long time, too long to really know anything. And I was here and not there, and everything I knew that wasn't you was there and not here, and for a moment it all seemed too much. But somehow I was able to trust the decision I'd made and trust the love we had - trust it to keep me afloat in those early homesick days and then to lift me above water level and help me find a life here that I wanted to live. And it worked, or proved true, or something.

There's not a day that closes without me feeling grateful in some way that I made that choice and took that chance. You make me laugh like nobody else- with your songs and your dimples and everything you are. You change lightbulbs in my car and fix my tyres and sort the internet on our computer. You bought our house when really I think you'd have been happy in that nasty Waltham apartment forever more. You laugh at your own jokes and make up names for the cat and never ever stop making noise of some sort. You are indefatigably curious and sometimes I wish you were just a little bit lazy. You eat ingredients and it drives me insane. You cook and clean up after yourself and deal with me being not so great at cleaning up after myself. You're very particular about only boiling the correct amount of water. You do our taxes and you don't get cross when I throw a tantrum about being too hot when running on a treadmill. You run at my speed and are friends with my friends and occasionally babysit for their children so that we can go out. You tolerate Grey's Anatomy. Sometimes. You challenge me to push myself, to climb (literal) mountains and run (literal, half) marathons and to not hate republicans just because they're republican. You are completely wrong about the value of fiction and really need to go clothes shopping more than once a year. We hold people to the same standards of decorum and manners and I love that. You have far too many opinions on the way I cook in the kitchen and I hate that. And all of it, all of you and this life we've built adds up to something far beyond my best case scenario. I love you, I love us, and our life and I'm so glad - so incredibly glad - that I, that we, took this chance together.

March 1st 2010 - just married

Having crossed the threshold
(not my favorite threshold, but happy nonetheless)

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.