Why Create a Group like this?

Around the time that my daughter was starting school, I became friends with an English family who had recently moved to Strasbourg. Our daughters were in the same class, and excited to spend park dates and playdates together outside of school. This was, I believe, my first encounter with a child who did not want to be here.  Or rather, this little girl simply did not want to leave the country she had grown up in and where she felt so truly at home. Anywhere that was not England was not a place Tilly wanted to think of as home. So much so, that as the months went by, she adopted a kind of language of temporary existence for her life in France. Home here became ‘our right now home;’ her friends at school were her ‘for now friends’ and she would frequently refer to ‘when we go home’ in everyday conversations – referring to the time in the near future, when she believed her family would be returning to the place she knew so well; to where she belonged. Unfortunately, her plans were not those of her parents. Returning to the UK was definitely not on the cards for the time being. As the months went by, my friendship with Tilly’s Mum Jan grew; we would look forward to our coffee mornings once we had dropped our girls at school, when we were both able to share the many ups and downs of early parenthood. Jan frequently confided in me the guilt she felt knowing their little girl had convinced herself she would soon be going ‘back home’. Despite both parents never having led Tilly  to believe they would be returning to England in the immediate future, this 5-year-old little girl had somehow convinced herself otherwise. She had made up her mind; everything in France was of a temporary nature, and in her eyes, had merely a ‘part time’ existence. My own daughter would tell me that her friend Tilly was happier in England and that she was excited about going back. 

Throughout the years, Tilly continued to refer to her family’s return  to England. With time, the hope turned to frustration, then anger and sadness. She struggled academically in a system which although international, was set within a French culture. Her struggles and pain continued until high school,  when she finally met with teachers who were able to offer tools to help. And then it happened – the family did actually decide to return to England. This came after over ten years of struggles with their daughter, who somehow did not ever settle in a country which for her would never be home. 

Since meeting Jan and Tilly, almost 15 years ago, I have met and worked with many other examples of children coming from abroad with their families who simply do not ‘settle’ in the ways they naturally settled in the country they have left behind.  Whether through my work as an educator in international schools or other circles, each case is unique. Yet what many of these children have in common, is that they have somehow been robbed of a feeling of contentment for their life abroad. This feeling  often spreads to other areas of their lives, affecting their ability to find peace in this new country and in turn puts a ‘damper’ on the experience of every other member of the family too. 

The solution? There is no simple answer. What is sure, however,  is that comfort can definitely be found through sharing stories.  I have learned over the years that the more I am able to listen to the stories of children coming from abroad and feeling ‘stuck’ in the nostalgia of their home countries, the more likely it seems for small but significant shifts to happen. Sharing seems to offer a comfort which might just be enough to enable someone to move forward in more positive ways. 

And not all the stories are those of struggle. Many of the children I meet over the years have experienced the transition from one country to another with ease and have many happy stories to tell. These stories also matter. It is  through sharing that doors are opened; stories can offer hope and understanding. They can, I believe, help navigate what may have been missed or misunderstood until hearing them spoken out loud. Stories give a voice to what otherwise might remain an internal conversation. They help bring us closer to others, leaving us less alone. 

My belief in the power of storytelling has led to the creation of the Circle Stories Support Group. I come to the group not so much as a teacher, but as an adult offering a space for stories to be told; for stories to be heard, and maybe, for stories to work their power on those in need of a moment of understanding. The group  claims neither to be a therapy session, nor to fix everything which may not be going well for the young people who attend. It is, however, a safe and friendly space where those who come along can share, or simply listen, in the presence of myself and Audrey, my friend and colleague whose experience and personality will add to the warmth and friendliness of the space we create. 

Open to English-speaking 11 to 17 year olds, the group will take place initially once a month. Please help spread the word to any young person having moved to this country, who has a story to tell and to learn from. 

(Any names used in this article are fictitious to protect the identity of those concerned).

So I ordered a feather quilt over the winter break, and it arrived last week. Ever since, our nights have been long and luxuriously comfortable. The quilt, made in France and with soft cotton, fits exactly into each corner of the quilt cover. This must be the first time we have ever actually had a quilt which fits perfectly into the cover. I am so exited to get into bed each night. Sleep is simply more and more of a sacred time the older I get and I feel strongly about not getting enough or wasting sleep hours on idle activity such as sitting in front of my TV or scrolling through mindless screens of FB or Instagram threads when I could be sleeping. Sometimes it takes a 300 euro quilt to stop me doing either of the aforementioned activities and getting down to serious sleeping, but its certainly been worth every cent so far 🙂

Flower Wave

Spending time on my blue balcony, the flowers now having opened and soaking in the heat from the sunshine, surpasses pleasure to become a moment where I feel I sink into being truly me. I often sit and read, drinking my morning coffee with a book as birds fly overhead or the odd shout from carefree kids in the neighborhood resonates in the courtyard created from the urban building of apartment blocks which surround a concrete area 5 floors below. I love this place. It makes me feel safe, wholesome and very happy. It is my happy place.
Last summer, after years of collecting beach treasures; first alone, then with my children when they were still very young, and in much later years with my daughter, I finally got round to beginning my mosaic on the back wall.  The collections had been stored in plastic bags for years. The tatty carrier bag holding bits and pieces of beach combing moments had itself  begun to rot; bits of its plastic red colour peeling off, so long it had been stored under the kitchen sink, then moved from place to place, always escaping being chucked out with the rest of the trash each cleanup moment or move.

The mosaic began as a free sea scape, wavy movements forming along the blue wall with pieces of worn sea glass. The wave  turned into a flower head at some point, then grew petals, and finally  leaves sprouting from the stem. I liked it. My husband commented on how ‘abstract’ it all looked, and smiled; a smile which could have passed both for mockery or marveling at the result.

I had loved every minute spent mosaic-ing; mostly in the mornings; alone with birdsong, the odd podcast and my musings … I loved the haphazardness of cementing, placing a piece of worn glass somewhere along the wall, and simply enjoying the process. It was, far more than the final result, the actual process which brought me so much satisfaction. Watching  a mosaic come into being on its blue backdrop, and loving the freedom of zero concern for what it actually turned out to be in the end. I was free of rules and expectations; this was simply a time to create and enjoy. I wonder if this is how children create when painting or drawing; not really knowing what they are producing until a resemblance of something seems to begin on the canvas or page. Then suddenly that ‘something’ is the artist’s entire intention; the child places all her energy into the conviction of her art piece, knowing now exactly what she is creating. No doubt.

I began this post over two years ago. The mosaic has since extended to a second wall, where two fish dance with one another, and a third one swims off in another direction.  This time I planned and sketched my piece before placing the first pieces of broken ceramic onto the wall. I wanted fish to accompany the sea flowers, and I loved them immediately. They are colorful and happy and carry  memories of each of the objects which had been smashed or chipped over the years and which now sit on my blue balcony wall. Favorite bowls, cups and plates have turned into beautiful fish and I get as much pleasure from seeing them in their fish-like form as I did from using them whilst they belonged in our kitchen.

Fish dancing

Third Fish

Magical Meditations to begin the week

My beautiful daughter left for a week’s gym camp this morning. Filled with relief and excitement at the idea of a whole week without the daily attempts at ‘tiptoeing  around’ the 17 year old adolescent child so as to risk as few explosions as possible, I sit here, writing about her. How ironic. Of all the things I could be doing which I claim never to be able to do with children – no matter how old – around, and here I am, sitting writing about my darling daughter.

As many of today’s teenagers, she has so much. She is nourished in so many more ways than I ever was at the same age in her creative cravings, and it pays off. Marla, at 17 is able to sing regularly in a top acapella group of talented young adults; she performs at least twice a year with YATS – the wonderful theatre company for young adults which trains its members and cast of current performances to perform to their absolute best. The results of their performances are stunning. The costumes, the dance choreographies, the singing, the acting, the sets … it is all top notch for what remains an amateur theatre company, running mainly on good will of member parents, family and friends. In addition to all of this, she has regular violin classes and has grown in recent years into a fine player who I never tire of listening to when she either practices or plays for pleasure. I’m not sure my weekly piano lessons ever led to much ‘playing for pleasure’ and my singing classes, although an incredibly happy part of my week, were loaded with what I guess may have been the inhibitions of adolescence, and I never quite got past that obstacle enough to shine as I maybe could have done vocally. Not until much later than 17 at any rate. The list of opportunities, especially artistic ones, goes on.

But as with everything good … there is, indeed, a price to pay.  I find myself reflecting on that price often, and seem to be wondering more and more, in the month before my 50^thbirthday, if I have not now reached a point where sufficient price has been paid. Where it is time to assess differently what often seems so challenging on a daily basis living with a fiery and incredibly creative and talented 17 year old girl. I have spent numerous moments mulling over the distant belief that somehow our children come to us. We do not choose them. They have chosen us. Or rather, some other force has chosen us to parent them. To love and care for them whatever. If we were chosen as parents, it is because we  are able to bring up these children to be their best selves. To be the best adults possible. We are able. We are able. We will succeed. The fact that we were chosen means we already have succeeded. And yes, I do believe that my daughter is going to be just fine. That she has taken on the deep and precious values of our family life together that we have been sharing with her since the day she was born.

I watched her pour coffee this morning. I stood watching the back of her in her night clothes. Dressed lightly in her summer pj’s her body looked small. Not frail, or weak, or lacking muscle, which is certainly not the case. No, I saw how beautiful she is. And in seeing her as small , I saw her for the child that she is. I saw her as the child she still remains at 17. And it felt good. It felt safe. It felt right.

Last night, preparing to leave for a week, she ticked the items off one by one against the list the organisers of her gym camp had sent out. She was excited but scared. She asked for my help in packing. It is in those moments that I am able to feel strong again. To know that when needed, our children will ask. They are asking at those moments, for not just a helping hand from Mum or Dad, but also our presence, our time, our attention, our advice. Last night, whilst packing and getting ready, she was getting ready to leave, but showing me in every step of the way that she wanted me to help her get ready.

And right now, it is my intention to honour the magic moments in everyday life when that help is asked for. When that reconfirmation of her love for us, for her family, for her home life, is given through a simple question; through a ‘what do you think Mum?;’ through an act of sharing or a smile or a glance which lasts only briefly, but is full of intensity. I must not forget these signs, these daily lessons from my children, especially my daughter.

July 17^th2020