It’s not what you think. Though Chile may be geographically isolated, it’s no island. We live 90 minutes inland next to the enormous dividing wall of the Andes Mountains. I’ve written about missing water before. Namely, missing our dear Pacific Ocean, it’s healing ions, and proximity to its beat. That’s why we traveled to coastal Peru, to rest and let go on a day that needed waves, not mountains.

I summon the island metaphor because of the isolation factor. While Ryan and I have lived here for 2.5 or 1.5 years (!) now, respectively, California is receding more and more. It’s simply been a long time since we lived there or called any part of it our own. Without a home base, we stay with our Moms or in hotels when we visit. When we return, it’s always a bit of a mystery as to when we’ll go back or for how long. We have to miss big days in our friends’ lives, just as they miss them in ours. That’s how expat living goes, just as Santiago grows more familiar, friendships deepen here, and the Spanish vocabulary slowly accumulates.

 

 

But I know what I’m feeling isn’t just about the distance anymore. It’s about what Ryan and I have been through this past year, how rare our experience is, and therefore how isolating it feels. I think no matter what goes on to happen in our lives, losing Lorenzo will feel like the main thing, the inciting event that changed everything. Our first child is forever out of reach—that’s where the real sense of being an island comes in. Most of the time, Ryan and I are at least huddled together on the sand. Other times, we have to go occupy our own islands for a little while before we can float back together again.

We’re still here on our island when a Hurricane devastates the East Coast and jeopardizes the safety and comfort of family and friends. We’re still here on the island when an election determines the next President of the country where we still do our voting and tax paying and maintain some of our healthcare. It’s a strange feeling to be far away during such focused points of national attention. Even though it’s relatively easy to find out about what’s going on back home, I feel like an outsider looking in on all of you.

 

 

Then I wonder what any of you can really see of me or what goes on here? That’s why I’ve kept this blog going, after all, to give you all a peek—even when the view is heartbreaking or it’s hard to explain. That’s the human experience. You walk in your shoes and I walk in mine and we try to connect when we walk alongside one another.

But our loss makes it hard for me to see and then show you what else is here. I no longer write to tell you about my quest for hummus (there’s a new mall with a new supermarket that carries it on a fairly regular basis) or how many people I had to meet with in order to schedule and pay for a standard teeth cleaning (the answer is five; six if you include the dentist). I forget to describe the familiar sound of construction and protest horns coming in through the open window or remind you that it’s warming up here in the Southern Hemisphere. All of that is also happening, as life does. I need that reminder, too, but I still don’t think I’m ever getting off this island.