Begin at the beginning

I think it started with “Mamma Mia.” Yeah, the movie. 

Obviously the seed had been there for a long time; since 1982, to be exact. That was the year we moved to England. We spent the next nine years in Europe. When I left at age 19, I cried all the way to the airport in Munich. The cab driver said, “But you’re going home!” I blubbered, “No, this is my home.” I didn’t return for 22 years. 

Cut to 2008, in the movie theater. It was a beautiful and fun movie, of course, but that’s not what was on my mind. How did she live on that Greek island for so many years? Where did she have her baby? Where did she get her groceries? Did she have a bank? Who were her friends? When they showed her daughter’s school picture, I thought, where did she go to school? Was it on the island or a boarding school on the mainland? 

How can I do that?

2013: I was awarded a trip to Vienna for a science conference. The whole ten days I was in Europe, I was weepy and sick to my stomach with excitement and emotion. By the end of the trip, I knew I had to come back. I had to find a way to make it happen. There had to be a way. 

And that’s where I am now. 

A few months ago we approached our principal and superintendent to ask for permission for a two-year sabbatical to teach abroad. The only thing we asked was that we have jobs when we return. They said yes, and were actually enthusiastic about it! The idea is that we come back and finish out the minimum years required to access our state pensions, then go back to teach abroad for the rest of our careers. This will just be a break in the… I hate to use the word “monotony,” but I have to be honest. That’s what it is. 

Last spring, I had a moment in class where I wasn’t sure if I’d taught a particular concept yet. I looked over at my aide (who had been in my class for several years) and asked her if I had. She couldn’t remember either. I looked it up, and it was still weeks away. That incident bothered me. The years are starting to run together in one big blob of sameness, we have reached the point of total comfort, and that’s when the time starts to go too fast. That’s when you look around one day and go, “Holy crap. I’m 65. And this has been my life.” I have never wanted that to happen. I just got lucky enough that I caught it midway. They say life is a journey, not a destination… Well, we reached a destination years ago—fantastic house we’ve customized ourselves; living in a state we love, in a great neighborhood, near family; two fantastic daughters; satisfying jobs-- and it’s perfectly lovely, but it’s also perfectly uninteresting. I understand how spoiled that makes me sound, but… It’s like the end of a story. 

I’m only 42. I’m not ready for the end of our story. 

I am the kind of person who does things. I have an idea, and I say, “Well—why not?” And I try to make it happen. As I get older, I realize just how little there is to lose—and how much there is to gain—by DOING these things. A wise person once told me that I’d regret more the things I didn’t do rather than the things I did, and he was so right. Sometimes there are mistakes, like the time I renovated our kitchen pantry and drilled a whole line of holes into a drain pipe from the shower upstairs. It flooded our basement and cost over a grand to fix. But the mistakes are just part of the story; usually they’re the funny parts. 

So here we are. We are working with an agency that hires teachers for schools around the world. It’s still too early for us to know where we’re going to go; we have a few months before these schools know what jobs will be open for next year. To say that I am obsessed is an understatement. I am constantly Googling (or Google Earthing) potential places. Where do I want to go the most? Prague? Switzerland? Thailand? Chile? All of the above?

Since we got permission for the two years and activated our applications with the agency, we’ve gotten a lot more information on each school. It appears that some of the salaries are very generous compared to the costs of living, and we can expect to save quite a bit of money in most places. Knowing this has kind of changed the game a little. If the estimated savings is truly what they claim, it might be more than that state pension we return for. If it is… do we still need to come back? And would it make things easier to just sell our house instead of rent it out? We’re crunching the numbers now, and we still have the safety net of our jobs back in two years. But. There is a possibility that we could go for good. Now that… THAT is a life. Now we’re talking. It would be, literally, a journey. 

Selling that beloved house is going to be a killer. We’d sell the house and almost everything in it, and move with little more than suitcases. As I look around my house, I try to steel myself for the difficulty of selling meaningful possessions. But one of the things propelling me forward is something I read in a Sean Penn interview a few months ago. His house had burned down a few years ago, and he lost everything. He said that there was an odd sense of relief when that happened. Relief. It keeps surfacing in my mind. Do I even know what’s in that trunk at the foot of my bed? If I got rid of all those clothes in my closet that are waiting for me to drop ten pounds, would I even remember what was there? Would I miss all of my books? The furniture that I bought when I got my first “adult” paychecks? Yes. Yes, I probably will. Will I miss them enough to turn around and stay here with them, giving up my dream? No.  

It’s terrifying. The details are scary. Health care. Banks. Cell phones. Visas. The day we say goodbye and take those steps through airport security. Just thinking about that moment makes me feel cold with fear. 

This summer, Nick and I went ziplining in Vermont. I learned something about myself. I have a slight, healthy fear of heights. As I climbed through the course, I figured out a trick: focus on what’s in front of you, don’t look down, and don’t think. Just DO. I did best when I did nothing to psych myself up to step off that platform and dangle my legs 100 feet off the ground. No deep breaths, no counting to three, no pep talks. I’d hook in, grab the handle, and go. So far, that’s working everywhere else, too.