A New York teacher's sabbatical year abroad.
A quality education has the power to transform societies in a single generation, provide children with the protection they need from the hazards of poverty, labor exploitation and disease, and give them the knowledge, skills and confidence to reach their full potential.
— Audrey Hepburn
I’m starting up a blog, as I begin my sabbatical year. Subscribe below, if you’d like to be updated when a new entry is made. And thanks for reading!
I am sitting with some deep sadness today, and lots of not knowing. The only not-knowing that is bothering me, is the not knowing of when I’ll see my daughter again. Life plans complicated by covid have put a hold on any arrangements we could be making.
My time in Belfast is done, and I’m looking forward to seeing my Belfast people again, whenever I return. Took a day trip up to vet the dog one last time, and it felt warm and familiar. I think I can finally find my way around a bit without my GPS. It only took a year. Good stuff.
BFF back in the states booked a car service for me, once I land. Not feeling confident about driving on the “other side” of the road, after a year of navigating the UK and Ireland. Two booked suitcases (each under 30 kilos, thank you very much), 2 carry-ons, and a dog in a super large crate – loading all into a rented car? On my own? I do not imagine much success. Not for the first 12 hours of my arrival, I should think. It will feel strange to get behind the wheel of my own car, as it is.
I feel like the hard part is finishing up – saying goodbye. Daughter and I have already texted several times. Close, but different. Communicating long distance. All the other things – getting a phone (cell, landline, both?), making sure I have electric at my new place, how do I set up the tv? All that pragmatic stuff will help me to re-acclimate.
I don’t have an accent, which some people thought I’d have. I am using the language though. “Thank yeh…. Have yeh not?… Do yeh not?… Hiya!… That’s us, nigh… Thanks, love”…. “Fer fucks sake” is of course, my favorite. It currently can’t be helped and will all fade eventually. I hope I don’t stop saying “chicken” and “birdie” as pet names. Just a sweet thing.
This is all turning into a bit of stream of consciousness, I apologize.
I feel this year has been one of deep psychic and emotional rest and rebuilding. I learned how another community supports mums and children. In thinking about the people I’ve been working with this last year, I’m reminded of the book Mountains Beyond Mountains. In no other way, but the idea that if things seem impossible, you can either commit yourself to doing something about it or enlist others to help you do something about it. There is no “not-doing”.
I learned that engaging in redundant activities can kill your spirit and stamina, but that repetition and routines can save you. It has been confirmed that I do best when I live alone. I learned that communities can mirror each other, but that the most progress is reached when we hold steady to collaborative goals, rather than copied behaviors. I also saw that just because ideals and values are different, doesn’t mean they don’t have merit.
I’ll see more as my time in Belfast gets further away.
Pro tanto quid retribuamus; in return for so much, what shall we give back.
Addendum, 31 August 2020
Today is my official last day of sabbatical. It has been quite a process getting myself back into the swing of things. I miss my daughter and Belfast very much. I am comforted by the closeness of my son and my best friends. I am not sure what life will bring next, but I feel as ready as I can be. I loved my sabbatical, and I see more clearly what I am capable of, what I want, and what I need. It’s been a very good year.
My time in Belfast is officially over. Good-byes make me sad and a bit uncomfortable. It always feels easier [to me] once it’s all done. When I was making plans to return home, there had been no official word from Stormont when centers would be allowed to open; as it was, rules and opening plans changed daily. I made the plan to leave Belfast on the 18th, but children returned to the center on the 20th.
I am sad, and very disappointed to not see the children and mums before I leave. But when I’m honest with myself, I recognize how overwhelmed I am, organizing my move back to the states. I don’t know if I would have been truly present for the children and workers; especially if I had to traverse this week of firsts with them.
I’m in the Dublin area with my daughter, enjoying the life she is creating for herself here. I’m navigating the Euro now, and the higher cost of living. I find myself asking “Do you say [it] like this here in the Republic? Up in Belfast we….”. Things feel very different. Although I still can’t “do” an NI accent, listening to the chatter in the shops here has been another readjustment, and I’m often left wondering if I’m actually hearing a completely different language, and not English, at all.
I think about my neighbors daily. I can’t really express just yet how special and important it was to have a social bubble on top of that mountain. My last Thursday night in Belfast was spent at Pauline’s with her Aunt Kate and neighbor Martina. Sarah joined us later and we laughed ourselves stupid. Conversation and wine were flowing, Raymond walked the baby up and down in the pram, and Christopher joined in later, along with wee cousin Patrick. Sarah and Christopher shared their story of how they met, we all talked about trips we’ve taken, and we all talked about childhoods and relatives that have passed.
On that Thursday night there was a storyteller and a confirmer; “we had good childhoods didn’t we, then?” followed by “Aye”. The roles would reverse occasionally, but there was always a coming together and an agreement on facts; narrator and chorus.
Each neighbor has lost someone close to them; a brother, a sister, father, cousin, son, mother. There is a universal understanding and compassion that runs through that lot, and a social holding of each person and their memories. There are no stories of people still being present, no denial of the finality of death. But there is an embracing of what was, a recognition of deep sadness; the telling and retelling of memories and stories which are sustaining, refueling, and good enough.
I continue to be shaken and angered by all that I see on social media, and what is being reported on the news. George Floyd’s murder has inspired Black Lives Matter demonstrations here. White UK residents seem confused.
I am feeling driven to educate myself and have participated in webinars over these last few weeks. Nothing I write or express will move anything forward in this moment. My virtual shopping carts are full of books that are sold out. It seems many of us are eager to educate ourselves and broaden our perspectives. I hope that’s the case.
I don’t actually know what’s waiting for me back in the states. Not in a real way. I know that I am feeling more ready to return, than I did a few months ago.
I headed out to the shops today, and it was a chaotic shit show. There were moments when I actually could not move out of crowds or make my way down the street. I avoided the indoor mall, thinking I would less likely be surrounded by people, but it was the opposite. I went into one tourist shop to buy gifts to take home, and then made my way back to the car. I passed through the indoor mall to head back to the car park. Taped out spaces and directional arrows kept people moving and in safe zones. It was all quite predictable and felt safe.
I came home angry, exhausted, and if I’m being honest, fairly freaked out.
My clothing and my reusable shopping bags were thrown into the wash while I showered. A late lunch, some bad television, and plans to stay up late and watch movies has helped me to settle. I will knit and do online puzzles of Belfast.
I know how privileged, how fortunate I am, to be up on a mountain with kind people and a multitude of animals.
I’ve been reading, hearing about, and experiencing emotional moments, that normally wouldn’t give me cause to pause. But now, thanks to this weird and surreal existence we are in the middle of, I find myself moved to tears on a daily basis.
Those who know me, know that I cry easily, readily, willingly. But things are more on the surface now. Along with disrupted sleep patterns, a lot of not-knowing, the suspension of work routines, lack of physical contact with people I love, and an inability to do what I want when I want to, has left me vulnerable and emotional.
I’ve decided to make a list of things that make me cry. I was going to do 2 lists – one that makes me cry, and one of things that bring me joy, but things that bring me joy also make me cry sometimes. So, there’s that.
Here’s my list:
I’ve hesitated posting this, as the list keeps growing. But I guess that’s the point. It’s this time we’re in. When do you cry? Do you cry? How are you feeling about all of this?
Easter was always a childhood nightmare for me. A time when my parents couldn’t hold back the pressures of depression, financial insecurity, and alcoholism, and all would come crashing down on us. There were broken eggs, drunken crawls across kitchen floors, and the declarative droning of Charleston Heston in the background, parting the Red Sea.
I began to see the propitiousness of Easter after my children were born (totally used the thesaurus for ‘propitiousness’). The giddy joy of egg hunts, the over-indulgence of chocolate, the pursuit of the perfect outfit and basket. My ex’s cousin made the holiday for me and I felt my own rebirth of hope and happiness being with my children and extended family.
This Easter has confirmed my love of hope, and my inability to let it go. I don’t always feel my own resilience. I don’t always feel a purposeful direction for myself. But I have a renewed respect and appreciation for waiting, sitting, watching, and being. Easter encourages me to tap into my inner strengths and to recognize a grace that is available to me. I recognize a warm internal peace that is waiting for my company.
Today my housemate and I will work on finding that fragile balance between tradition and newness. We will lean into what has been lost, and what we may find when we allow ourselves discovery. It will have to be ok to be sad, while permitting some happiness, and maybe even some joy to enter in.
As some of you may know, when I get any kind of respiratory ailment, it usually turns into some kind of bronchial infection, with asthmatic symptoms. I had been fighting a sinus infection for over a month, which is now gone, but I’m left with “viral wheezing”. The National Health System is stretched so thin at this point, many medical centers are closed until further notice, including mine.
Phone consultations are done, with the purpose of limiting exposure for both healthy and unhealthy people. After my phone consultation, I was told that several prescriptions would be filled for me at the chemist’s that I use. I called the chemist early this morning to see if the prescriptions were ready, but no one answered. Thinking I would chance it, I headed down the mountain just before 11am, parked the van, and walked around the block. There was a line (or queue) of about 15 people, each standing 6 feet apart from the other, waiting on the chemist. The first person in the queue was spoken to, and the chemist’s assistant would then go in to either find or fill the order. One customer at a time was allowed in.
At 12:09 the chemist came out and told us they would be going on break at “half 12, until half 1”. There were only two people ahead of me when the automatic shutters lowered and locked. “That’s their subtle hint” my neighbor said. I left with no meds. My housemate and I headed to the grocery store to do another shop. Then back up to the mountain we went. We were hungry, and felt like we had been out in public long enough.
This evening we got a message that tomorrow is when our incubation period will be met, more people will test positive, increasing the chance of spreading covid-19 to others who may not yet have it. I know my asthmatic cough will worry people, and I have been thinking about my own immune system. I will admit to some anxiety, but I need to briefly head back out tomorrow to get my medications. Any delivery services I could be using are no longer taking on new customers, and some are booked until mid to late April. Every system is currently over worked and runs the risk of imploding. I know some of you will find this all provoking, and I apologize. But you also know I’m not a risk taker. We’ll stand 6 feet apart, and we’ll be outside.
We are no longer allowed to drive to parks or other open areas to walk dogs or get exercise. I am thankful to be on a mountain with sheep and cows and other friendly neighbors. I’ve got plenty of food, and a nice man at Sainsbury’s ran and got me a bottle of whiskey when I couldn’t find it, so I could make hot toddies. That thing is going to last me until I leave in July, that’s for sure. Tonight, my housemate and I stood and cheered on the balcony at our center, in solidarity with the NHS workers who are on the front lines. Belfastians love any excuse to set off fireworks, but it was beautiful this evening, and I felt connected to the larger community, even on top of the mountain, away from it all.
I’ve posted a video on Facebook that was made in Belfast, showing quiet and desolate streets, empty of most people and activity. The narrator equated staying in and staying away from each other as an act of love. A caring and loving act for those we know as well as for those we don’t know. It feels powerful and hopeful, and it helps me to feel like I am doing something necessary. I will hold this responsibility intentionally and at the forefront when I wait for my medications outside tomorrow. Retrieving my meds is a caring and loving act I have to give to myself. I need the antidepressant, the antibiotic, and the albuterol to heal and remain healthy.
But I can’t help feeling guilty.
I found out about 30 minutes ago that one of our children died this morning. A freak home accident. I am in complete shock and feeling a bit floaty. I’m not sure how to move forward, so I am just trying to organize my life, my stuff. My two housemates and I are sad, and not sure how to process next steps.
I held and hugged him on Friday, two days ago. I changed his nappy on Tuesday. He sat on my lap and said “yeah” to every question I asked. Sweet and amenable. Earnest and kind. Eager to make connections with the adults in the room, and always happy to come for his visit.
I can’t say that I’m gutted. I can’t even state yet that I will miss him. I am in an emotional stasis.
*
My director called to see how we (the volunteers) are doing. She described herself as “completely gutted”, but that she didn’t need anything at the moment. I am relieved to be in a place where everyone’s well-being is considered important, and where people are willing to check in.
She had also put in a message to the social worker who is currently staying with the mummy, checking in to see how she’s doing. In-hospital procedures are not nice, and I’m sure there will be an autopsy to get through.
There is nothing for us, as a group, to do right now. We may not be getting the other siblings this week, as the house has closed up, and the other children are with relatives. It feels a bit like standing on the edge of a nightmare, and I have to turn away every so often, so I don’t get sick and overwhelmed.
*
The three of us in the house (4 if you count a housemate’s girlfriend) have been separating to self-care, and then coming back together throughout the day. One asked for a hug. One is stress cleaning. I am floating between my laptop and the tv and got in a small walk with the dog. It’ll be time for bed soon.
Tomorrow morning the whole team will come in late, as group has been cancelled. Plans will be laid out for the coming weeks, as we process the death of this child, and the impact COVID-19 may have on our ability to stay open.
It would be ridiculous for me to avoid the topic of COVID-19, so I figure this will be my monthly entry, on a topic that is affecting everyone I know.
One of my housemates will be returning to the states earlier than scheduled, and his plans to travel throughout Europe for the next month have been squashed. On a gap year, his university has recalled all of its students and has suspended all sponsored travel.
Friends have had business trips cancelled, and my sister has written to let me know that her trip to see me in April is probably off. My hair cutting appointment will be rescheduled, as I work on clearing up a head cold, I’ve been laboring with for 2 weeks, “just to be safe”. If this is the personal worst of it, I know I am very very lucky. I have my dog, good food, secure shelter, and enough over the counter drugs to keep me comfortable. The internet is slow, but adequate enough to help me stay in touch with the people I care most about.
Up here on the mountain we are not isolated, as we engage the community in Northwest Belfast, and as the city on the whole is small and interconnected. And for reasons only politicians pretend to have a handle on, schools “down south” in the Republic of Ireland are now closed for the next two weeks, while up here in Northern Ireland, schools remain open. We are reassured that the soft and unpatrolled border between the conjoined countries is enough to keep us all healthy and unaffected.
The lack of true leadership here closely resembles what seems to be happening in the United States, with Northern Ireland’s DUP mirroring legislation put forward (or not put forward) by the GOP. Local political matters have focused on non-collaboration between Sinn Fein and the DUP, rather than the coming together over mutual concerns and the well-being of all Irish people. There is an understanding and scornful acceptance of the ineptitude of governance, and the selfish politicians that support useless regulations and irrelevant legislation. The Northern Irish communities have long been a non-priority in the United Kingdom, and the corona virus only sharpens this reality. Leaving Northern Ireland at the bottom of the proverbial barrel is a truly non-sectarian act.
I am trying to lean into the ambivalence, and the deep disappointment I feel at not being able to see my sister. It makes me sad, as I had wanted to share the beauty and craic of my new, albeit temporary home with her. I am trying to reconstruct a daily life independent of plans that I’ve made, and I am trying to reimagine what to do.
I am privileged.
I am not an hourly wage earner dependent on tips, my health is not overly compromised, and I do have access to health care that is not tied up in my ability to work. But I’m indulging in a wee bit of self-pity today; this and some really good chocolate. I’ll sleep on it, and I know my perspective will be broader.
I am hoping that each of you reading this is minimally affected by the pandemic. I am hoping that some time away from others actually allows you time to reconnect – with individuals near and not so near. Maybe you’ll get to read a bit more, or work on something you’ve been meaning to get to at home. It is “Pie Day” – 3/14, although it makes no sense here, as the date is written 14/3. I’m still making an apple pie, though. I managed the grocery store (enough toilet roll, but very little hand soap and other cleaners). I even bought some cut tulips for our table. I’ll color and knit. Maybe later the dog and I will walk down to visit the lambs and feed them some carrots.
One of our mummies died today. I am sad. I have no details, but her story is not mine to tell, so I will not share it.
My story is that I chatted with her. I have hugged her. I love her children. I sat in sadness with her loving team, halfway up the mountain; we waffled in and out of silence, planning our day, drinking tea, remembering her, feeling sick for her children, cheering each other forward.
My story is that our afterschool group needed picking up, and I made chicken curry with some of them, did the dishes, told jokes, and listened to their understandings of Tik-Tok, school suspension, art, and each other. My sadness was put on hold long enough to experience some respite, and I was given the gift of time with children who, in those moments together, were happy.
Tonight I’ll give myself some space, and go to bed early. Tomorrow more mummies and children will come; I will chat with them, hug them, and fall more in love with the children. And, I will hope for the best.
This morning my dog took off after the local sheep. No matter how much I called her with ever increasing urgency, she wouldn’t come back until she felt done. I had taken her out without a leash only once before, and she had stayed close. Forgetting how bold she often feels after initial experiences, I took her outside with no leash for the second time, and off she ran.
Coming back with muddy paws, a tight curl to her tail, and dare I say, a definite grin and chuffed attitude, she got picked up and carted inside for breakfast. She slept deeply all day.
It was an exciting way to start the new year. If she hadn’t looked so proud of herself, it would’ve been much easier to get mad at her. Off she went to start her new year with adventure and boldness. I hope the same for all of us!
These last few weeks have been holiday-focused. In northwest Belfast, there are two religions – Catholic and Protestant; so it seems. Hanukah and anything else don’t seem to be on anyone’s radar. It has been over a month of Christmas preparation, conversation, and shopping.
For me, it was also the anticipation of spending time with my two adult children and their dad; he and I have been separated for 4 years. I have gotten feedback stating that it is unusual to hear me say “my kids’ dad” (rather than “ex”)and that we were going to be spending Christmas all together. On the surface, I agree. This certainly wasn’t my experience after my parents divorced, and it wasn’t one I ever wanted. It was clear long before my parents separated that they were not meant to stay together; I was relieved when they finally split.
My kids’ dad is a good person, and very easy to co-parent with. And yes, I do believe that our adult children still need to be parented. The parenting lens is the one I look through and the one I structure my relationships on with them.
He and I get along fine, although we don’t agree with each other on some things. Our lives have begun to diverge and go in separate directions, which ultimately is one of the reasons we needed to live apart, so we could allow that to happen. It is hard work, and we are doing the best we can. Being with our children is rewarding and fills me with great joy. I believe I can say that their dad is having that same experience.
The bottom line is that we get to write our own story. No one else is entitled to do that, and quite honestly it wouldn’t make any sense to leave the creation and interpretation of our experiences to anyone else.
For the coming year, I hope you and the people you love get to write your own stories. I am including a link for some work happening here in Belfast, that is trying to encourage the same thing.
Brooklyn to Belfast