The Black Bag

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When I first moved to my adopted country, it was like putting a black bag over my body and pushing at it in all directions until something gave. Then I tore at the hole until it got bigger and bigger and I was able to step out into a new life.

At the time, I was trying to figure out a way to stay in the country, partly because I wanted to be with the man who became my husband, but also because I was in love with the place. I kept trying things, and finally applied for one thing, that led to another,  and then I got a good offer to back to university and I became a teacher. I found a job I love, married my husband and began a life that worked out well for nearly seventeen years.

I’m at the beginning of the same process now, I think.  I know from how it worked before that I have to stay open to all possibilities. I know that it may require a fair amount of work. But I can feel changes coming. I need to let myself follow one thing after another until I start seeing some light from under the black bag.

I’d like to find a job closer to my new beau, but working closer to him means learning another language. So I start, which at fifty is not going to be easy.  But I’m back under the black bag, and I need to push until something gives.

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