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Sheila wrote about her decision to move from Canada to the Netherlands in our September issue. Read Blowing it all up at 63.
Establishing a life in a new country cranks the dial on “new” about as far as it goes. Things that are second nature for locals are difficult for me, which results in me regularly experiencing discomfort and awkwardness. When these feelings become particularly overwhelming, I remind myself that “new” doesn’t last forever. And as I relax a bit, I wonder if, someday, I’ll struggle to recall these early trials and frustrations (sparking odd, useless thoughts about the connection between resilience and amnesia). Ultimately, I realize I will miss the rawness of being new—this strange mixture of vulnerability, discovery, and unexpected connection. And until that moment comes, I resign myself to clumsily practicing what I call the “Art of Being New” and aspire to a sense of belonging.
One challenge I have is my deeply rooted commitment to self-sufficiency. It means my first reaction to needing help is to absolutely not, no way, no how, never ask for help, and possibly to develop an elaborate, Shawshank-level exit strategy. But, the reality of starting life over in a new country forces my hand
When I was a child, I thought that I would continuously add people to my life as I aged, imagining them as pebbles along a path I could collect at any point in time. What I came to realize was that I primarily made friends when I was “new,” or, more often, when another person and I were simultaneously “new.” In new situations, you don’t know the rules, are unsure how to proceed, and must fumble through it all in learning mode. You probably need help—extra help, a whole frick’n lot of help. So when you find someone who is having a parallel experience of uncertainty, you are likely to turn to one another unguarded, to solve problems. And when you open up, it creates opportunities.
One challenge I have is my deeply rooted commitment to self-sufficiency. It means my first reaction to needing help is to absolutely not, no way, no how, never ask for help, and possibly to develop an elaborate, Shawshank-level exit strategy. But, the reality of starting life over in a new country forces my hand, my immediate needs outweigh my reluctance, and I have no choice but to reach out. And that’s when something surprising happens - vulnerability, instead of swallowing me whole, actually transforms into an openness to new people and experiences. The results are sometimes wonderful (and sometimes not), but I have found a few ways to make it easier for myself.
In the early weeks after my move, drinking from the firehose of information that was my new life meant that I was only able to absorb a small amount of information at a time, no matter how helpful, and ended up feeling thwarted at every turn. Eventually, I gave myself the grace to go slow.
Going slow
One key adjustment I made was to lower my expectations of how quickly I could do just about anything. Starting over in a new country at an older age is like finding myself in a parallel universe where everything looks familiar, but nothing quite functions the way I am used to. Going about day-to-day life I frequently get thrown a curveball that I couldn’t have fathomed. Who knew, for example, that the Netherlands stopped cashing checks back in 2021 – besides, of course, the entire population of the Netherlands.
In the early weeks after my move, drinking from the firehose of information that was my new life meant that I was only able to absorb a small amount of information at a time, no matter how helpful, and ended up feeling thwarted at every turn. Eventually, I gave myself the grace to go slow.
As time passes, my ability to take in helpful information expands. Now I view my existence as continuously expanding circles of comprehension that grow with each passing day. I have learned to go more slowly, letting my understanding unfold rather than trying to force its expansion.
Finding familiarity in unfamiliar spaces
Once I accepted that I was basically sitting at the bottom of Maslow’s pyramid and that I needed to prioritize the important things, I began seeking out little comforts that had anchored me in my previous life.
For example, not long after I had moved into my furnished apartment and unpacked my suitcases, I began a quest for “my yoga studio.” Yoga classes exist everywhere. I did my first yoga class while pregnant in Berkeley California. Upon moving to Singapore for a job in 2003, I found a yoga class where we got to hang upside down at the end of every class. And in British Columbia, I met a new best friend sweating through my first hot yoga class. Downward Dog is a global citizen.
Another safe haven? Libraries. Blessed, glorious libraries. Robust wi-fi, a warm place to sit, bathrooms and rows and rows of books.
Here in the Netherlands, I attended trial classes at several different yoga studios, absorbing about 10% of those first lessons in Dutch. It was easy to follow the crowd, so it didn’t matter much that I didn’t understand what was being said. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I chose a studio most like the one I knew back in Canada. Biking to yoga is now part of my weekly habit, grounding me at a time when I still feel unsteady and disconnected.
Another safe haven? Libraries. Blessed, glorious libraries. Robust wi-fi, a warm place to sit, bathrooms and rows and rows of books. Libraries offer me a familiar place of quiet solace where I can sit and work, surrounded by the gentle hum of hushed conversations. And as it turns out, the library in my new town offers bonuses, like a tiny café where you can grab a cappuccino, a weekly language group to practice Dutch, and just the other day a delicious cookie because, well, it was Turkish Culture Day.
Little by little, these familiar activities weave together to make an emotional safety net for my new life. The unfamiliar is less bothersome because routines that mirror parts of my past help me navigate the unexpected and give me a solid foundation from which to try new things.
“But while we have no control over time itself, we do have a choice in how we orient to it, how we inhabit the moment, how we own the past and open to the future - a choice that shapes our entire experience of life, that ossuary of time. And just as it bears remembering that there are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives, it bears remembering that there are infinitely many ways of being in time.” - Maria Popova, The Marginalian
Change of environment
I put on my ski gear, and pull my boot bag up on my back. Covered head to toe, I step outside. My skis are perched on my left shoulder, and my poles are in my right hand. I walk carefully down the snowy path and up through the village to the lift. It’s a sacred ten minutes of meditative rhythmic walking to warm me up for the day ahead.
New snow has fallen – about twenty centimetres. The snow cats have groomed the mountain during the night. It’s early and I'll be on the first lift up to the slopes.
This is the change of environment I crave the most at this time in my life. The movement from posed stability to energetic vulnerability, from the familiar to the serendipitous unknown, from the routine to the spontaneous. Here on the mountain I feel like I live life to its fullest. I feel more alive here than anywhere else. Curiosity is my catalyst — I could rest today, I could contemplate other days gone by, but I'm curious: What will the snow be like? What will my balance and form be like? What shapes of clouds will appear? What breeze will freeze my nose? Where will the trail take me? It is ski season; adventurous, mysterious and invigorating. It provides another form of lifestyle filled with the sort of vulnerability I love.
Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain.
This magic mountain that I've skied for years and years changes all the time. It's ironic really, as it is made of stone and rock, ice and dirt - elements so strong and stable, so unmoving and unbudgeable, so unforgiving and invincible, yet it is forever changing. Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain. Such a curious phenomenon — this alpine environment that moves and changes constantly, just like me. The weather forecast looks good today, colder than yesterday, but mostly sunny in the morning with the wind rising in the afternoon. Of course, this could change too.
Letting change flow
Arriving at the base of the mountain, I put on my ski boots, tuck my shoes away for the day, and once again perch my skis on my shoulder. I use my poles to help me navigate the steps up to the gates; it’s the beginning of the season and this morning routine of getting to the lifts still has me feeling a bit winded as I get used to the altitude. My friend is waiting for me. She and I smile brightly at each other and, seconds later, the buzzer goes off and the gates are activated. We are the first ones through, proud of ourselves for our early rising and excited to experience the thrill of another ski day together. We banter about the beautiful day ahead, our slight aches and pains and need for some stretching.
My friend is confident and bold — an expert skier. Me, I am not as confident and I am no expert. But I am bold, and she inspires me. Most of all, I am grateful for the change of scenery, communing with nature and the joy of being together again on the mountain.
Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
As we descend each run at our own pace, our skis pushing us beyond our unique comfort zones, we each experience individualized moments in the quiet rhythm of skiing. Every day on the slope is different, every turn of every carve into the snow is different, at times smooth and other times choppy. At all times, our minds must stay connected to our bodies. It is invigorating and mystifying, as we must disconnect from all worries and all other actions and stay absolutely present. Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
After a few hours of skiing our favourite trails, I tell my friend I want to stop at a lookout spot, not because I’m tired but because I want to breathe in my surroundings. She says she’ll let me have a bit of alone time and we decide she’ll do another run and meet me back here. The sky is vast and filled with a multitude of blue hues, the clouds are fantastical and bright white. The fresh cold air is thinner up here; it smells minty as it passes through my nostrils and it tastes minerally as it drips down my throat. The steam rises from my scarf as I breathe in and out, feeling the warmth of my body. This change of environment is essential to my well-being. It’s not just any change of environment though.
Chrono-diversity
It’s being up at altitude that thrills me most. The physicist Carlo Rovelli in his book “The Order of Time” captures the essence of my pause at the lookout spot. He writes,
“I stop and do nothing. Nothing happens. I am thinking about nothing. I listen to the passing of time. This is time, familiar and intimate. We are taken by it…. Our being is being in time.”
I lived and worked in this village just below the slopes for ten years, all through my thirties, and now that I am retired, I return here as much as possible. Initially when I moved away, down to sea level and no longer at altitude, it took me a long time to adjust and to adapt to being in a different time zone, but not just a different chronometric time zone, but a different “chrono-atmospheric” time zone.
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level…
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level… This slowing down can be detected between levels just a few centimetres apart: a clock placed on the floor runs a little more slowly than one on a table. It is not just the clocks that slow down: lower down, all processes are slower.”
When I read this, I started to understand and accept why I had found it so challenging to transition from life up on the mountain to life in the valley. All of my processes had to become slower; my mental and physical, even spiritual relationships towards time had to change in order for me to adapt and to adjust to my new surroundings. It was a very unnerving time at first, and I found myself longing to return to the mountains. Despite the fact that I enjoyed my new job, raising my children and making new friends in a different culture, my personal processes, like my coping mechanisms, had slowed down and I needed to give myself time to accept the newness of this “chrono-diversity” at sea level.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months.
During those years, my friend stayed in the mountains; she never returned to life in the valley. And I believe this makes us different in the way we now measure time. Maybe her time does actually pass more quickly than mine? She is a speed queen and can get a million things done in one day. She thinks faster than I think, and certainly skis faster than I ski.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months. It’s the rigour and rhythm of mountain time. Rovelli writes,
“Two friends separate, with one of them living in the plains and the other going to live in the mountains. They meet up again years later: the one who has stayed down has lived less, aged less, the mechanism of his cuckoo clock has oscillated fewer times. He has had less time to do things, his plants have grown less, his thoughts have had less time to unfold ... Lower down, there is simply less time than at altitude.”
I guess the proof is “in the physics.” As I’ve learned, it is the changeability of time in the mountains that keeps me skiing through life. Even if it seems a bit ironic and mysterious to me, I imagine I will always feel this type of change to be constant in my life. Though I suppose, that could change too.
Not a bowl of cherries
And try new things, I do. Every week I scan the paper for upcoming activities. I have gone on a four-villages bike tour (feeling a bit silly on my Canadian road bike with no paniers), a walking tour of the local architecture (appreciating the views but absorbing not much more than the city architect’s name) and seen a revival of a favorite Dutch children’s classic (at a movie theatre full of children).
I make sure I need something at the lively outdoor market every Saturday and participate in free weekly Dutch practice at the library. I also faced the truth, admitting I qualified as a senior, and joined a workshop for seniors who had recently moved to town. On Monument Day, I cruised the open museums and special buildings in town, enjoying an exhibit of vintage furniture and a mini saxophone concert in an old church.
One letdown followed by another made me feel lonelier at that moment than I had felt at previous times since my move.
One day, after reading about activities planned as a part of the government-sponsored Week Against Loneliness, I reluctantly acknowledged that I was fighting my own battle against loneliness and that I could use a bit of help. I headed off to participate in a lunch at a community centre, but failed to find the centre despite an exhaustive search. I shook off the miss and went off in search of the next activity, Pétanque, a lawn bowling game I had never heard of, only to find out, upon arrival, that the game was canceled. One letdown followed by another made me feel lonelier at that moment than I had felt at previous times since my move. Fortunately, the fresh air from the long bike ride home cleared my disappointment and helped me let those feelings go.
I reminded myself that making friends is an organic process that takes time, repeated exposures and a bit of luck. And there are signs of progress! Last weekend, while touring a nearby news station during Dutch Media Week, I ran into three people I had met before. There is nothing better than a familiar face to make you feel at home in a new place. And hearing my name means a lot in this new place, it nourishes my fledgling sense of belonging.
The best aspect of being new is that I am thrilled by things locals probably don’t even notice. I find the mundane delightful. The other day, I was biking while nibbling on some bread and a stranger sitting at a bus stop called out “Eet smakelijk!”—which literally translates to “eat tastily.”
The elation
In the novel, My Brilliant Friend, the young protagonist goes on a seaside getaway as a teen. Describing her various new experiences, she says it was the first time she felt “the joy of being new.” I can relate.
The best aspect of being new is that I am thrilled by things locals probably don’t even notice. I find the mundane delightful. The other day, I was biking while nibbling on some bread and a stranger sitting at a bus stop called out “Eet smakelijk!”—which literally translates to “eat tastily.” This is apparently a commonplace thing to do, perhaps a local wouldn’t think much of it, but the unexpected well wish left a big smile on my face for the rest of the day.
Biking through Amsterdam late in the evening when it’s quiet is magical. The canals shimmer while the old buildings and cobblestones glow under the streetlights. Rolling through that scene on a bike, nearly alone, feels exciting and free. Currently it evokes a feeling so special it is hard to describe – the images are surreal – and the feeling for me is like viewing a striking work of art. Those are the moments when I am absolutely thrilled to have moved here.
For classic excitement, nothing beats a diagonal bike crossing light. Yes, there are bike traffic lights—and one in particular allows cyclists to cross diagonally, all at once, from every corner of the intersection. When it turns green, it’s organized chaos: bikes heading in all directions, yet somehow no one crashes. As I wait for the light to turn green, I feel like I did as a kid when I was lined up to go on the roller coaster – both tense and keen.
These everyday moments—the casual kindness, the biking quirks, the sheer beauty of the place and the awareness that it won’t last forever — make me appreciate being “new” in spite of the challenges it brings.
The challenges make the small victories sweeter, and the mistakes turn into stories I will tell with a predictable element of embellishment.
Embracing the chaos
Completely starting over in a new place later in life is hard. No way around it. It’s messy, sometimes absurd, and filled with many moments of frustration. But, it’s also wildly rewarding. The challenges make the small victories sweeter, and the mistakes turn into stories I will tell with a predictable element of embellishment.
And for now, at least, I have stopped boarding trains going in the wrong direction.
