Transitions

Well, we've officially become Americans again, buying into something I scoffed at last year... the plastic space shoes everyone seems to be wearing!




Unfortunately, this wasn't enough to successfully transition to Seattle. We had to invest in another kind of footwear!





Transitions are difficult, even when it does involve legitimate excuses to shop and buy new things. We are 6 weeks into American Life and the first sign of emotion finally showed itself in our 7 year old. Listening to familiar Turkish worship music (and how weird is it that we know the words and we know the vocalist!) roused in Aidan sadness and feelings neither of us were aware existed. He actually verbalized what we wondered if he internally understood; "I've lived there all my life! That's my home! I want to go back."

Well of course! Are you just now realizing the pain of the leaving process?

I began feeling the pain of leaving a year ago. I knew then the cost of transition. I also knew I wouldn't know it as reality until I was here, now, in this place living with the hole that "Turkey" and all that it represents has left.

I have the Washington driver's license, the library card and grocery saver's card. I belong to a rec center and have begun getting junk mail addressed to me. All the proof that I now belong to this community called Lynnwood, 15miles north of Seattle. But I have no relationships to attach to these new identity cards. What is belonging without knowing and being known?

At the kids' swim lessons I scope out the other parents. It's a strategic guessing game as I secretly try to pinpoint their nationality. Decoding is a skill I've learned well. I am drawn to anyone that looks or speaks different. I resist the urge to cozy up next to them and ask all sorts of questions. Where are you from? I'm from Turkey! How do you like it here? We're foreigners! Shouldn't we be bonding?

In Turkey, if you're a foreigner, you're instantly friends. It unites you. Expats! Aren't I an expat here with the Africans, Indians, Egyptians, Japanese, and other Asians? Am I one of them?

Aidan was in a summer camp with a boy whose parents looked so Turkish. I paused once behind them waiting for them to speak and answer my longing question, but didn't hear anything. I kept asking Aidan to get his name. "He's from Canada." No! That was just a stopping ground. Where are they from?

The hole is more pronounced than it ever has been. We've been back nearly every summer, but the finality of our move and the reality of being "third culture" is intense. Am I comfortable? YES! Do I love my country? YES! But am I uncomfortable? YES! Do I love Turkey? YES!

Transition is so much more than new shoes!

Life in the little town of ancient Nicea

Our family took a day trip to Iznik last week. Ancient site of Nicea where the famous Council of Nicea occurred. We hear lots about it from Turks who are taught that this was where all the different Bibles were put on a table, shaken, and the 4 that remained are the Bibles we use today, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. We know it as the place the trinity was determined to be doctrine. The church where the 7th century council met to declare the ban on icons over is still standing in the center of town.

Far more interesting to us was the wonderful feeling of being in a large Turkish village but not a spectacle. Used to tourists enough to not gawk, but not dependent on tourism enough to be leachy, this town ignored our presence as we walked up and down their cobblestone streets. We were in search of classic Iznik ceramics because this is the home of the famous art of the 15th century still seen in many of the famous mosques throughout Istanbul. A new masters college has been established to resurrect the skill and a plethora of small studios fill Iznik proudly displaying their work.


And the women on the curb had come into town for market day. 3 liter coke bottles filled with fresh milk lined the street! Just another normal day in the little town of Iznik.

These men hanging outside of the women's doctor clinic need to be immortalized on the wall of any female gynecologist! Not sure that's a doctor I would choose to go to!

A visit to Cappadocia

I've been to Cappadocia before. It's otherwise known as Galatia in the Bible. An amazing, eerie, other worldly kind of place. A place you could hide in if someone were looking for you.

Several years ago we were there with a bunch of colleagues and all our kids. We hiked through a less traveled valley and crossed a small ravine to climb into a hole in the side of the mountain wall. Had we not had a resident guiding us none of us would have known that there was a hidden church through that hole. Lit only via a small opening in the "roof," light streamed down to reveal 4 columns, a vaulted ceiling, an altar up front... Together with our Turkish and Korean brothers and sisters, we took communion and sang hymns. It was a holy moment.

Last week I was again in Cappadocia. This time with my Mom who had never been. I was eager to see a few things I hadn't yet seen and was happy to explore a caravanseray, a different underground city, and a small dying village perched on the edge of the famous Ilhara Valley.

It was in this village that broken streets and brokenness again came alive to me. We had joined a Korean tour group as a means of travel. I had slipped on some ice and had fallen well behind the rest of the group and the tour guide (the worst tour company I've ever experienced in Turkey mind you... RockTomb Tours.) As we slowly meandered down the slope of this village any questions we had had of inhabitants soon became apparent. Though it looked inhabitable, people filled the little houses lining the cobblestone road. Soon, a pair of curious boys joined us in our walking and we took part in a lively banter of whose village was best. I finally got up the nerve to take their picture when I noticed a group of older women on the wall above us. I wanted their picture too!




So I began to explain that I had a boy their age and the woman accompanying me was my Mother. Soon the oldest of the women had come down from the wall and had sidled up next to me. She too was a mother, but not of a son. She had been widowed 23 years ago and had nothing much to do but tend her garden. As we walked and talked I noticed her brightly colored pants that Turkish village women are accustomed to wearing. I was acutely aware of being in an ancient village talking in Turkish to a weathered woman of a hard life. It was thrilling.

As we rounded a corner the facade of another church carved out of the mountain appeared. She and the boys excitedly gave us a tour, explaining the frescoes and unabashedly laying blame to their own people for defacing Jesus' and the disciples' faces. Through an alcove that had been carved out, we entered another chamber and came upon an enormous old wooden oil press. They passionately explained how it had worked as I intently tried to follow the conversation of all them talking at once.

The Koreans had long since made it down the hill to the bottom of the village, but my Mom and I knew we had experienced the true treasure of this little place on the map. I was reminded of the heart of Turkey and the real nature of exotic living. It was a recapturing for me of the original vision and adventure that led me here.