Kindred Spirits

One day the wind changes

And a new nanny blows in from the north

A young lady who is on her own journey

But your four-year-old self has no concept of any of that

She is a magical lovely being

With bright curly hair

And a big smile

She makes everything fun

Your very own Mary Poppins

She is even English! 

And she becomes a part of your life. Your family. Your world. 

Eventually, the wind changes

As it must and always will

And your very own Mary Poppins

Heads off again for more adventures of her own

Over the years you all keep in touch

Until it grows sporadic 

Life just happens 

You go to school

Parents separate 

You go to high school and university

And travel 

And write 

And everybody goes about their days filled with breakfasts, and lunches, and dinners

And the small things we don’t think about

That mark and pass each day

Until over twenty years have passed 

And you’re a year off from thirty 

And out of the blue

Your very own Mary Poppins writes to you through your website 

And you discover she lives in Chicago! 

You plan to meet up.

You’re nervous. Why?! 

It has been close to twenty-five years since you’ve seen each other! 

And you see her, and she’s still your nanny

She’s still magical and lovely 

Still has the great big smile, though all her curls are gone

And she has children of her own

(The same age you were once upon a time!) 

And even though all this time has passed

Even though all these lives have been lived in the intervening time

It’s just like being with family, with a very close aunt or big sister 

She asks if you could stay in Chicago and become her nanny! 

You wish you could. You really do. 

You never want to leave! 

But the wind has changed

And you’re headed off for adventures of your own

You give her a hug

And promise to return

That night, your heart is so full

You can’t even sleep. 

It’s not memories, or even topics of conversation,

It’s this sense

That you’ve rediscovered who you are

Where you came from

And who was there

Who made you who you are

And that time and space

Can never separate kindred spirits

People who are supposed to be in our lives

And make it better

The end. 

Heading East

Farewell Fort Collins! 

Blink and you almost miss it. 

The pretty grid of streets becomes farmland in less than fifteen minutes.

Hit the freeway. 

The mountains recede in the rear view mirror and, 

Welcome to Wyoming! 

The land becomes flatter 

Until there is nothing but flat green to the distant horizon.

Welcome to Nebraska! 

Mother Mary at the border. 

Endless fields punctuated by giant horizontal, triangular sprinklers

Large metal silos and water towers

Herds of cattle

The occasional horse.

Trains snake their way along tracks in the distance.

Clusters of trees denote houses. Long dusty driveways trail from the house and run parallel to the freeway.

State-sponsored rest-stops with spotless restrooms and vending machines selling candy and soda. 

Funky tasting water from the water fountains.

Outside, wind-blown picnic tables sit empty

Signs detail generic area histories. 

The Native Americans... 

The white “pioneers” and “settlers” ... 

Electricity 

“Progress”

Imagine traveling through here before asphalt and gas stations and water towers?! 

Drive past Lincoln: Capital of Nebraska. President of the USA. Memorial in Washington. Library block and blue “house” at my high school in Sydney (Sydney, Australia - not Sidney, Wyoming).

We zip down the freeway. 

Who organizes these endless fields? Switches on the sprinklers? Surveys the land? 

Who creates the timetables of those long trains that chug through the landscape?

Or can sometimes be seen sitting still in the middle of nowhere. Where is the driver? 

The network of gas stations. The people who staff them.

The road. The road. The road. 

Puffy white clouds create patterns of sun and shade over the fields 

Head towards darker clouds, and then, hard driving rain on the windshield. 

Pass through. 

More road, more fields, more clouds. 

Wire fences and tilled land as far as the eye can see

Wide open spaces.  

Road kill. Religious billboards. And gas stations. 

Signs for Kansas City (everything’s up t’ date in...!) 

The bridge with the monument and winged horses.

The bridge with the metal and corrugated iron sailing ships.

Welcome to Iowa! 

Immediately after the border, the landscape begins to undulate. 

We have been on the road for 9 hours.

We pull into Minden, Iowa. 

(Min-den? Or Mind-en?)

Outside the Country General Store, a sun-faded sign

You are stomping into Minden!

With a couple standing in a bucket of grapes. There are cut-out spaces for heads and hands. Touristy. Gimmicky. Hilarious. 

Travel down the road.

A cemetery lined with red, white, and blue flags.

It seems almost festive, all that color and movement

Flags waving in the wind. 

  

Follow the road and arrows pointing to the motel and 

“Central Business District”

Our road and two others converge on the war memorial

 A sculptured

Over-sized American eagle, bronzed and bedecked in stars

Sternly stares down Main St 

The one-storey motel, ex-legion’s club, community hall, post office, bank, and

Church 

All look on in respect. 

Further east down the road 

A meat-packing and processing facility is bordered by the drug store,

The grocery store sits opposite. 

Neat houses with trim lawns and brightly colored pin wheels stand almost regimentally down the street.

West of the memorial - 

The fire station/mayor’s office

And more houses

Beyond Main Street, the world is fields of green and metal silos. 

The motel is currently staffed by an obese older man. 

He breathes heavily. The manager is at the movies with her boyfriend. 

He takes us down to our room. 

Here you go. Leave that switch on, it’s connected to the fridge. Shower in there. We have cable. 450 channels. We have wifi, I think. Not sure how to work it. I don’t have a computer. Enjoy your stay. 

He shuffles back down the hallway. The effort is immense.

We seek out dinner. The grocery store is closed. The manager has returned. Marin. She is Egyptian. How did she end up in Minden, Iowa? 

Marin of Minden offers frozen dinners - Salisbury steak with corn and mash. 

The hippies, formerly of Fort Collins, who have cooked farmer’s market meals seven days a week for the past six months, try not to recoil rudely in fear of microwave food stuffs. 

One dollar only! I make no profit! 

We smile. Thank you, but I’m a vegetarian.

She looks at me curiously, processing this foreign term, vegetarian.

Ah! I have olives! And crackers? It’s Sunday. Everything closed! But, gas station, just down the road! 

Apologetic thank you’s, and we head back to the car. 

I love you! Marin calls out.  

I eat granola for dinner. Damn hippies! 

In the morning, it’s back on the road. 

Count the road kill. Count the religious billboards. Count the gas stations.

The big move east,

We’re on our way. 

It Will Not Break. It Broke.

By Mike Flynn and Shikha Dalmia
From here. Not at all depressing or scary... 

When they say 

The immigration system

Is broken

It needs fixing 

I can tell you

First hand

It is a red hot 

Stinking mess 

Of hell

Like having the privilege 

Of being with my love

Took eleven months

A few thousand dollars 

Endless reams of paper 

That repeated the

Same information

Over and over and 

Over again 

Name. Age. D.O.B. His Name. Age. D.O.B. 

Parent’s names. Parent’s birthdays. Parent’s place of birth. 

Copies of birth certificates, police certificates, medical certificates. 

Every address I have lived at since I was sixteen 

(I am currently residing in my 24th abode in 30 years. I hate that question.) 

And once the system

Decided

In 2013

To make everything virtual 

We had to re-submit

Every single form

From scratch. 

At one point,

There were six different numbers 

Assigned to my case 

Now I am a code. 

I am never asked for my name

Only my number 

Because I am not 

Luisa Lyons, Australian/Spanish citizen 

I am a ten digit code with an 

Alphabetized prefix. 

And once I got to the USA

And arrived at the border

The immigration official

Had to go through every piece of paper

In my packet

Stamp it

And determine it was ok for me to go through

Once we were married

More paperwork

The same information

Over and over and 

Over again 

Name. Age. D.O.B. His Name. Age. D.O.B. 

Parent’s names. Parent’s birthdays. Parent’s place of birth. 

Copies of birth certificates, police certificates, medical certificates

Certified marriage certificate

Every address I have lived at since I was sixteen 

Everything must be submitted in hard copy, most forms are filled in by hand

This is to “Adjust Immigrant Status” 

And apply for “Employment Authorization” 

More exorbitant fees

That ensure

You will never be able to speak to a human

Months of waiting 

And zero communication

With the department

The system is broken 

Because between us

My husband and I 

Hold four university degrees

But my husband has to work his butt off 

To keep us afloat 

Because I’m not allowed to work

Either to contribute to the economy 

Or to our household 

I’m grateful I speak English

I’m proactive 

I volunteer at a local bookshop

Am volunteering with a local theatre company 

Writing my one-woman show 

But 

In a society whose primary currency is 

Cash 

I cannot thrive

I hate not being independent

I hate having to ask for financial help 

When we have worked so damn hard. 

I hate living in a system 

That is so crushed by bureaucracy 

And fear 

That it is not able to function 

The system is broken

And it’s breaking me down 

Every time I have to call the 

“Helpline” 

To ask 

Why haven’t we heard anything?

I’m tired of being a number 

And waiting

The end. 

The Road from Coorain

One has only to set the date, buy the ticket, and let the earth, sun, and moon make their passages through the sky, until inexorable time carries us with it to the moment of parting.

Jill Ker Conway

A book on the shelf

The name, Jill Ker Conway,

Stirs a memory

A historian and writer

Born in Australia

Now living in America 

The Road from Coorain

An autobiography

A story of growing up in rural NSW

Barely surviving the drought 

Living in Sydney 

Post the second world war

The familiar names of 

Mosman, Waitara, and Pennant Hills 

The relief of reading stories

Of someone 

Who never felt at home in Australia

In Sydney 

Despite the beaches and bush 

The smell of eucalyptus and earth 

What it feels to board the plane

To leave 

Knowing that Australia will always

Be a part of who you are

But knowing that your life

Exists somewhere over the ocean

Relief and tears 

Connection with a woman 

Whom, despite an age gap

Of half a century,

Loves history and reading and learning

And discovery 

And finds a place

Beyond the continent 

Of her birth. 

The end. 

Getting Married (Part 4)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

I love a good wedding

All my friends will tell you

I’m the first to cry at them

Be there to sing and dance and by merry

And celebrate the legal uniting of 

Two souls

I’ve been to weddings in gardens

On farms 

In churches

I’ve had the privilege of speaking at weddings

And singing in the ceremony

I love watching friends and family

Declare love

To their loved ones 

And for my own wedding

I wanted exactly no part of the circus

I’ve been engaged once before

We started preparing a wedding

Picked a date, went dress shopping, drafted lists, looked at venues

Learnt that the minute you mentioned

“Wedding” instead of “party”

The prices instantly doubled 

I discovered that 

Every. Person. In. The. World.

Has. An. Opinion.

And if you don’t listen to, and follow through, with their 

Sage advice

You will be DOOMED

Or offend, insult, or have yourself struck from the family tree. 

Instead of perusing wedding magazines

And blogs

Or attending fairs and conventions

Or sitting with girlfriends and sisters over coffee

Discussing details

I read about the history of weddings

Trying to understand 

What bought us to this level of crazy

I discovered that, in its earliest days,

The Christian church abhorred marriage

And declared celibacy was the only way to spiritual truth 

That marriages throughout history

Have been about the economic empowerment of men

And a means of controlling women

Their bodies

And reproduction

Committed by Elizabeth Gilbert

Was the most readable 

The traditions didn’t speak to me 

The white dress, the rings, the vows,

Bows on chairs. 

I hate, with a strange passion, chairs covered with white fabric and bows. 

I just wanted to marry my love

And live happily ever after the end. 

I begged my first fiance to elope 

Save the trouble and expense and drama

Instead we broke up. 

Nearly three years later

I nervously told Aaron

I didn’t actually want a wedding

He was thrilled. 

And so after a very long wait
And most of the year apart
We finally became husband and wife.

We got married on a Monday 

Because it was the first day we could

After applying for the marriage license. 

I wore a dress 

I’ve worn a hundred times 

And will hopefully wear a hundred times more 
Aaron wore a collared shirt 

We both wore smiles. 

We drove to the town hall in Aaron’s car

We walked inside the building

And because we live in Colorado

We did not require witnesses

We did not require a ceremony

Just the intention to be legally bound

We signed our names

Sealed it with a kiss, and, 

We were married.

We called our families
Wrote to our friends
And shared a dinner that we cooked together
It was quiet and lovely
And outside, the snow was glistening. 

The end. 

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 

Getting Married (Part 3)

An artistic representation of what I looked like. From here.

Part 1  Part 2 

Forty dollars,

And another form where I fill out

Every address that I have lived at

Since I was 16,

And twenty-four hours later

I receive an email to say my police background check

Is clear

And the certificate is on its way.

A week later it arrives

I book the courier

To collect my passport

Police certificate

And prayers for a speedy return

The courier collects the parcel

See you in 4-5 weeks

He says.

No.

I say.

I want to see you walking in that door with my passport and visa by the end of the week. Got it? 

He laughs. 

He doesn't get it. 

It takes the Embassy three days to process receipt of my passport.

Then nothing changes for almost three weeks.

My status reads "Ready"

It has been "Ready" since before the interview.

I lose my voice

Develop a horrible cough

I want to stay in bed and never get out.

I must be miserable to be around

I don't care.

Get me out of this limbo. I'm done. I've been waiting for 10 months.

I feel pathetic. Ten months is nothing in the grand scheme of things.

I take my first sick day since arriving in London.

I cannot face work or people or getting out of my pajamas.

Every time I've skyped Aaron in the last few days I cry. Sob uncontrollably.

I'm sick of my love being trapped behind a screen.

At 5pm the status changes.

"Administrative processing"

The stories on visa journey* are frightening.

Some people have gotten to this part of the process

And waited another year.

I feel utterly hopeless.

Another week rolls by.

Everyone is being optimistic and supportive

The system doesn't care. I am nothing. I am not human.

I am six numbers and an alien.

"Approved".

Wait, what?!

We check the website repetitively to make sure it hasn't changed.

Two days later I receive a tracking number from the courier.

My passport is on its way.

I'm headed to my love.

And after 10 months, and three weeks...

I'm on the plane! I'm on the plane! I'M ON THE PLANE! 

In ten hours I'll be with my love! 

The head of the cabin crew announces that we'll soon be landing in Denver

It is minus 10 degrees celcius outside

Every passenger does a double take

We are the only plane landing at this time

The customs queue is short

I have read that I may be taken to a separate room for my customs interview

I am called

The officer doesn't make eye contact

I hand over my passport

And a thick sealed envelope from the embassy

Containing all my documents

X-rays, police certificates, birth certificates

And every address I have lived at since I was 16. 

Right thumb on the screen please Miss Lyons. 

(Right thumb on the screen). 

When did you last leave the United States Miss Lyons? 

I left at the end of August...

Silence. 

I was here on a J1. For camp.

I know. 

I laugh a little. He has still not made eye contact. 

Four fingers of your right hand please Miss Lyons. 

(Four fingers of my right hand on the screen). 

You know you have 90 days to marry.

Yep! 

He doesn't look up. He stamps my passport, places the envelope in a pile. 

Congratulations. Thank you Miss Lyons. NEXT. 

The world is covered in snow

And I'm with my love

Everything is going to be WONDERFUL! 

Now we just have to get married! 

Read the final installment of Getting Married HERE! 

Part 1, Part 2, Part 4

*VisaJourney is an immensely useful, and free, website about the American immigration process.