Author: Robin Chartier

There are things that I take for granted living in the US — like mail delivery. I get that there are tons of people who live in rural areas who have to jump through similar hoops to get mail, but for this city dweller, mail is supposed to be dropped off at my house or at least on my front porch. For the past year mail that comes to me (let’s be honest — packages, I don’t get physical letters too often) is routed to Josh’s work and he has to haul all the boxes from his building at the back of the base to my waiting car in the parking lot where he has pre-arranged for a ride home. Or he unboxes it all and tucks everything into different pockets in his backpack and bikes it home to me. Let’s just say he was super excited when 24 large cans of cat food arrived along with the 40lb bag of dog food.

But this week? I’ve got mail.

The base just installed post office boxes for families that would like to avoid all the above described mail delivery problems and now I feel like I’m back at Westmont College. Spinning the little wheel back and forth until the lock clicks free, peering into the the dark narrow space, hoping to see a piece of paper saying that I have a package. Today I did have a package and the guy at the window was very excited because I was the very first person to test the new system. Yay me! I got a package! And then it turned out to be sunglasses for Josh. Boo. 

I better start ordering. 

I remember being a senior in high school and for the first time in my life I couldn’t see where I would be a year into the future. Previously I could always forecast the path my life would take. As I graduated from Laurel Elementary, I knew I’d be strolling the big halls at Bret Harte Junior High in a few months time and then 3 years later  I’d be going to Skyline High School. It was all stretched out before me. The only mystery was which teachers I would have and which friends would become my BFFs until they were replaced by other BFFs. Until the fall of that 12th grade year when my future faded into a fog and I couldn’t see what was coming next. It was a sharp bend in the highway. College? Career? I couldn’t see where I was headed next.

Now, as an adult, I know that my childish foreknowledge of my future was a myth. But back then it seemed pretty well set. And if you aren’t in the military or in a career where your location is constantly changing, your future probably seems pretty well set too.

Once again we are at a place where we can’t see into the future. I’ve had plenty of these moments over the past 16 years. I’m not sure if it’s getting easier, but I have gotten better at letting go.

Less than year from now we’ll be moving. I have no idea where. We’ve put in our requests with a prayer breathed to God that he would determine our next location (even if that takes us to [that place that shall not be named].)

I can’t help but stand and try to peer through the mist, imagining the different possibilities and which would be best . . . would Germany be the lush simple living I’ve always dreamed of? Would I learn to say “Auf Wiedersehen” like Heidi Klum and eat schnitzel every day? Would Camille go to an actual kindergarten and translate for me with all the German moms? Would I be at home in New York surrounded by city sounds that never cease? Would we go biking in Central Park and visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art every week? Where would the kids go to school if we went back to Monterey? Would I be content to buy our very first house there if all we could afford was a “crack shack” in one of the most beautiful places in the world?

Every time we move, I’m always glad I don’t have to choose — how could I ever decide between Good, Better, and Best? Changes are coming . . . stay tuned!

Since loads of people have complained that they can’t comment anymore on my blog, I am trying out a format change to see if that improves things. Will you do me a favor and try to leave a comment? You can remain anonymous and even leave a message like “oiurelkjfldsjf;oisdj” or “test” if you like. Thanks!

I realized this week that I should have upped my meds a long time ago. No regrets and all, but I wasn’t functioning properly and I couldn’t even see it. This week I cooked dinner every night — shocking that that is shocking, huh? After we got home from America, I didn’t cook for a month. Then in September I threw something in the crock pot a few nights a week if I could be bothered to get up and get something out of the freezer and turn on the crockpot.

This past week I made lasagna with grilled eggplant noodles, meatloaf with quinoa and vegetables, cream of spinach soup, Moroccan spiced eggplant, tabouleh (lebanese salad with mint and parsley), and chicken poached in white wine. Each of these recipes I either invented with what I had on hand, or I found several recipes that looked good and blended the bits I liked from each of them. That is normal me.

Looking back, I can’t remember what we did for dinner for the past 2 months. I know Josh would come home from work and cook some nights — other nights we’d go out or order in. I wasn’t ever really hungry, so I didn’t feel like cooking. Or grocery shopping. And we were both so tired that neither of us saw the huge red flags and realized that something wasn’t right.

I’m sure we could go back even further and improve my performance in life over the past year by increasing my medication as soon as I got to Bahrain, but sometimes it’s hard to tell what is “normal” depression caused by moving, stress, and fatigue and when it crosses into “abnormal” territory. I know plenty of people who wouldn’t consider what I was feeling as worthy of medicating, but I don’t want to be “good enough” or “OK,” I want to be myself. And myself likes cooking. Welcome back.