First, some humor on building a life someplace new. Oh, how I appreciate this. We especially need community when we’re starting over in some way, and that can be when it feels most out of reach. Thus far, Ruby is out in front with her boyfriend, Boomer, right across the street.

It should be all too easy to connect—if only because everything is in English again! I can even call people without calculating time zones or scheduling Skype dates! (And I don’t—mid-conversation—run out of minutes on my un-smart phone, requiring a quick run to the pharmacy to load more… how normal that so recently seemed.)

Here I go again, comparing two countries, only in reverse. I recently read a post about parenting in Chile and recognized so much in the images and observations. Because it’s there that my parenthood began and struggled and began again. It’s there that everyone I knew also knew about Lorenzo. Here, the truth doesn’t always fit in with the chit-chat after music class. Here, the neighbors still think we’re the new young family on the cul-de-sac. Of course, I could tell them. But we have only talked about the weather, about how fast Ruby can run, about how happy H. is. And she is. So inherently happy, which fills and strengthens my heart. I’m re-reading my Pema so I know it’s about taking it all onto the path: “The spiritual journey involves going beyond hope and fear, stepping into unknown territory, continually moving forward. The most important aspect of being on the spiritual path may be to just keep moving,” (When Things Fall Apart).

Protection is going on here too. We live in a conservative town. There are a dozen churches within a mile of my house, or so it seems. I end up behind cars with license plates that imply there shouldn’t be a choice. I do not believe that our decision is incompatible with this environment (and I’ve moved from a staunchly Catholic country), but I still exercise caution. I honor Lorenzo with every heart (as have so many of you), every essay about him, every word in the memoir I am revising. I also have H. I am an active mother. I am not so hungry for acknowledgement that I tell any and everyone about my son. But that does not mean I won’t be relieved when I find the person here I can trust with our whole story. That I don’t pause every time I might nod in order to keep the conversation with a stranger moving and imply that yes, H. is our first.

H. I’m on my knees with gratitude that she is on the path with us. She is all about forward motion these days—crawling, turning, rolling, reaching. She insists on it when being held too. How spiritually sound babies are by this definition. Calm, for her, is forward motion.

In all honesty, how happy I am that I spend most of my time with her. So much is temporary. I’ll look back on this time with fondness and yearning—as I do my latter days in Chile—because this, a third home, is where most of H.’s first year is blooming and where time moves quickly again.

A Santiago friend recently emailed. She had her daughter eleven days after I had H.—at the same hospital with the same doctor. She and her family will soon be on their way to Mexico City. That’s the thing about these international lifestyles… the revolving door keeps revolving. We keep moving. Forward motion. How nervous I once was to meet her, an “Innocent,” or so she seemed, pregnant with her second child. But how kind and receptive she was, how not as innocent as I initially thought. I’ve been remembering that as we continue down the path. And today I did tell someone new about my son, not the whole story but the heart of it, and she was lovely, as she pushed her own baby boy down the street. She asked me to tell her his name. Lorenzo. How much that meant and will always mean. How lovely, also, to then spread a blanket on a patch of grass and watch our children play.