Loss

It's been one month since I moved to Finland. There could certainly be a more cheery way to celebrate that fact than to write a post called "Loss", but it's the place I'm in just now for several reasons.
For one thing, it's September 11. No American who sat glued to the television trying to wrap his or her mind around an airplane boring straight into a skyscraper will ever be able to forget what happened that day. I can't imagine how it was for those who were actually there, or who lost loved ones.
The other thing, which is more immediate, is that a former colleague from the University of Oregon was just brutally murdered, along with her partner. Ann Dhu McLucas was formerly a dean of the School of Music and a central figure in Eugene's very fine music scene. Through Facebook and e-mails I can feel the grief and pain and disbelief.
Before I go any further, I want to bring up the issue of "comparative loss". There are great and small losses, but I don't want to compare them, nor to compare mine with those of any other person. I'm thinking of two statements made by wise people: You cannot compare two subjective experiences in any meaningful way, and experiencing a loss brings up all the losses you've ever had. So I'll simply continue, bearing this in mind.
I've mostly focused on the wonderful opportunity of coming to a foreign country, to a tenured position at a university no less, and to having a decent living wage for once. I've focused on the healthiness of my lifestyle here (biking, for example) and the delightful experiences I've had so far. And let's not forget the wonderful, warm and welcoming people I've encountered.
That being said, this has been a huge ball of loss.
First of all, I moved to Eugene in 1992. So it was my home for 20 years. I've never lived anywhere else for  that long. The web of my acquaintances, some of whom are close friends and adopted family, is thick and tight. That loss right there is profound and, if I allow myself to think about it, paralyzing.
(I need to go fetch a handkerchief. Right back.)
Let me talk about pets for a moment. My first reaction to hearing about job possibilities in Finland was, I kid you not, "Oh, I can't do that. I have a house and elderly pets." I miss my pets every day. I never thought I would be a pet person, but the dog and cat that my children convinced me to let them adopt sneaked into my heart without my noticing. It's so odd to not have a graying muzzle push in under my arm, so unthinkable to not have a big bundle of burry orangish fur curled up next to me as I work. So quiet when I get home. I am somewhat comforted by knowing that they are with a friend who loves them as much as I do. But I still miss them.
And my house. I don't mind living in a smaller space. My home was too big once my children moved away. But I miss things about it: the views out the windows. My sleigh bed. My large bathroom where I could spread things out on a big counter. My love seat, where I had a view of the suet feeder with its cluster of pine siskins. The deck! From my deck I could see my garden, the forest, my little apple trees, bats and larks and the occasional eagle. And let's not forget the ability to find what I need -- not "Oh. I guess I need to buy one of those, too." I may have an apartment and some furniture, but I'm still camping.
I can't even talk about the loss of my church family, my colleagues and students at the high school where I worked. The committees I belonged to and the important work we were doing. Swedish class. The ability to get in my car and drive to see my family. No, I can't touch those losses yet because it hurts too much.
So there it is: a litany of losses.
In the US, we like happy endings. Our films tend to end that way. We're always wanting to fix people's problems for them, tell folks to "cheer up". I could try to list what I'm grateful for here and to think about how I will get to see my children at Christmastime, my friends in Eugene in June. But today I'll just let these losses resonate. It's OK to be sad sometimes. Another wise person once told me, "Emotions are like clouds. They can look very stormy and ugly, but they are clouds, and they eventually move on." I guess I'll just watch the rain for now.