Change is the very basis of our life, not to be fought, to be welcomed and tasted, to be seen for the gift it truly is.~ Brenda Shoshanna
Well. It’s sunday. I have just returned from a glorious trip to my beloved Colorado. People, Colorado is heaven. There are no words, for the beauty, the glory, the loveliness of my home state. The air…it is so dry, light. As in not wet. The horizon, it is so open and full and distant and colorful. Not a green tunnel. The houses, they were so large and spacious, the plumbing, the roof tops, so… vivacious.
Yesterday, we flew as a family of five, a family containing a three-year old person (God Bless Us All) from my glorious Colorado after a long visit, to our home in Connecticut. I proceeded to apply every ounce of any people pleasing, energy-sapping, procrastinating, doubting, lonely and fearful energy to the road ahead, as we bounced down the runway. We arrived home, and instead of breathing in our home, taking in the charm, the soft light, the artistic nuances, the brilliant color, the fresh familiarity and promise… I picked a fight with Rick, pouring every particle of fear and heaviness that the months ahead will hold for us into making him feel inadequate, making our home look rundown, making my spirit feel small.
It is now that gratitude is necessary. In the moments when gratitude bites, and everything feels impossibly fickle.
A year ago, we moved here. That word, moving, does not capture what we went through. Or maybe it does. Move. Ing. Movement. Motility. Mobility. I know that many, many people in the world experience this excruciating transforming, called moving. From the old, to the new. The fossilized, to the green. The roots were dug up, and we found ourselves in pain. To be dug up is painful. It was an acknowledging, that our lives needed new movement, as much as we resisted that change.
We arrived here in the northeast a year ago. I found myself facing monsters, unearthed from a vault I was no longer able to keep locked. The August air here was as thick as my fear. My daughter became ill with a bewildering affliction. The cracks we had spackled over and repainted in our marriage became fissures threatening to render us in two. The acknowledgment of my powerlessness was paralyzing, the idea that I was not strong enough, capable enough to withstand a “silly move” across the country filled my body with cement. I found myself facing a spiritual crisis larger than I had ever known.
I fantasized about walking out of my life.
I found myself weeping into a cardboard box, with a new and passionately destructive mantra:
This is not my life. This is not my life. This is not my life.
I shocked myself with the depth of my misery, my weakness. When you choose to move, change, transform something in your life, every problem that has not been addressed, every injury, every insecurity…it will rise to the surface, reveal itself to you for acknowledgement, for repair. And it did. Viciously, and without pause.
Apparently, I had been standing on a volcano of suppression, and it erupted at our taunting…our invitation, by moving our family to Connecticut. I am still in the process of digging out. We hit our one year move-iversary and while things seem more familiar here in Connecticut, the repeat seasons, the fact we have spent an August here before… the humidity, the rainstorms, the unpacking of suitcases, it floods back to me in giant waves of panic. Like post traumatic stress disorder. My scalp has been itchy as the memories barrage me (did I mention that we all got lice during our move?) A certain sight or smell or taste will trigger a powerful rush of memory of my misery just a year ago. The site of the weeds in the yard, growing taller than me. The organizational nightmare of our garage, still housing trashed cardboard boxes. Or the smell of wood smoke wafting from the eighty-four year old chimney after a rainstorm. I am randomly overcome with the remembering of my absolute undoing.
Two days ago, at my parent’s home, we had a dinner with the people closest to us in Colorado. We ate and drank and reminisced and took pictures. The kids made messes in the dress up box and turned dinner into a combined game of duck duck goose and musical chairs. Periodically an adult would snag a child and trap them in a hug without their permission and the impending close to our visit would loom larger. And then we said our goodbyes. Again.
I wiped the tears of my children with the palms of my hands, I buried their heartbroken sobs into my belly and rubbed their backs and soaked in their sadness. I kissed my nieces and nephews and hugged my brothers and sisters just as we had last year, on the front lawn of my parent’s house.
Yesterday, we hugged Grandma and Grandpa in the early morning chaos of the airport and flew back again, to the place where the moving must happen. It is happening now, as I write this, with a lump in my throat.
As we made our final descent yesterday, I held Stella’s dimpled three-year old hand in mine and felt the airplane speed up to meet the fast approaching ground, and then slow…speed up in a burst, then slow again. It felt choppy and unpredictable as we dipped lower toward the ground. I was afraid we would land too hard, the inconsistency would prove to be a danger to our arrival. Despite the unsteady approach, the ground seemed to rise up to meet us, and we eventually bounced to a roll, roared to a lull, and found ourselves safely…Home.
There has been changes, monumental, and minuscule, in our movement from one place to the next. But mostly, the change is in the mantra, which has been unearthed from the rubble so far.
This is my life. This is my life. This is my life.
And the universe will rise up to support me.
Today I am grateful for:
-a family worth missing
-the softness of Stella’s hand
-the healing properties of spackle
-the reassuring step from the threshold of an airplane on to solid ground