Where I am.

Change. It is never sudden. It is never the same one day and different the next. It is a process, a great spinning wheel of woven thread, ever intertwining, ever creating, ever meshing until that last string is sharply cut, separating that sweater, blanket, or sock from the man-made creator. But even then it is not finished. The sweater is sold in a shop, bought for a husband, handed down to a son. The blanket is gifted to a granddaughter, who holds on tight and then grows up, draping it over the rocking chair in the living room. The sock is worn, and then worn again, torn, torn again and then mended.

We are always changing, being moulded and fashioned. It is a process and each season brings new doubts, emotions and sorrows.

One year and a week ago we left Germany. At this point last year our home was filled with bland boxes, piled to the ceiling in our dining room. Our walls were blank, clean canvases, and our hearts and minds were fixed as steadily on the future as on the present.

I never cried. I haven't once cried about leaving home. But I am heavy tonight. It has been growing and building in me for the last while. Summers in Kandern were filled with rolling green hills, fresh forests, the spring-fed pool that I found my way to every day. I miss it all. I miss it more than I ever have tonight.

Maybe the adventure of moving, the excitement of novelty has worn off and I see where I am. Although perfectly contented and at peace about where I am, I'm not sure where I am.

As cliche as it is, the question, "Where are you from?" is the most dreaded one. I realized recently that I can now say, "I'm from St. Pierre, just down the road" and it relieved me. But did it really? Is it really home or just an easy answer? I am grieving the loss of my home .. ever changing... never fixated.

I miss my dear friends, thousands of miles away. I miss big trees, hills, driving 45 mins. to the Alps. I miss talking freely about the places I've been and the things I've seen.

I miss Brazil, I miss Germany.

The spinning wheel keeps turning, the yarn keeps intersecting, homes are created, changed, remodelled, sold. But my identity lies in my creator - the master weaver who spins lives, ideas, emotions, homes and stories that are shaped into who we are but then he cuts that string and calls us to move forward, to let go and begin the painful, beautiful, healing process of starting again as a single thread. As hard as it is, it is exciting to watch as that thread is shapes into something beautiful and who's final form is a complete mystery.

He has blessed me with a world far bigger than I know what to do with and a life constantly in motion.

I miss.

But that's how it should be.