I’m a writer.

There is a stream of marketing brochures, technical documents, presentations, and publications strewn along the path behind me. Though I have worn many professional hats with different labels, it is the skill, passion, and perspective of a writer that has always been my north-star. 

I’m a talker. 

My father rightly said my mother and I were “vaccinated with a record needle” (apologies to readers born in the digital age for the antiquated reference).  Colleagues, friends, and family would willingly confirm this.  I have thrived in the arena of public speaking and always read what I write aloud.  Giving voice to words brings them to life for me and separates true gems from imposters.

I’m an artist. 

Lacking my mother’s natural skill with brush, pencil, and paint, I learned the joy of image making with words.  Yet, whenever I see beauty, I first regret that I cannot sketch, sculpt, or weave its transformational power.  And then I remember that I can. . .

 I’m an expat. 

I have willingly exchanged the comfort and calm of the familiar for the disquiet and stimulation of change. But I could not have predicted the emotional storm that would come with navigating a new world in a new language.  Losing confidence in words has obscured, and at times, threatened my very sense of self.  The effort to dead-reckon my way in this sea of foreign lexicon continues to alternately constrain and exhilarate my expat voyage. Writing daily has become the sextant that re-orients me toward my guiding star.

Looking backward from an apex of six-decades, with a clearer view of many unexpected twists and turns merging toward the present, it seems inevitable that the writer, the talker, and the artist would find their way to a foreign home.   For a birds-eye view of that passage, read my personal history, “Those that Move.”

To discover how my path joined with my co-conspirator in expat life and wander with us, follow our journey.