So, we’re leaving soon. It feels so good to be out of the closet about it, to be open about all the fears and thrills that are nested inside this kind of life change. Everyone’s been so supportive, so encouraging, and I’m bolstered now. I mean, I’m still completely “wait, what?”-ing about moving our whole life 3,000 miles to the right, but I’m also harboring more of a quiet calm.
A few mornings ago, I took a walk with one of my oldest friends on the beach that’s been our locus for the past few years. It was calm and sort of cold, and I held her coffee while she fiddled with the flash on the camera that just refuses to cooperate. She couldn’t coax it up, and we couldn’t find a corner dark enough for the camera to let go on its own.
Eventually I just opened my jacket and she stuck the whole thing into the shadowy recesses under my arm. Click, click. No release, no dice. I zipped back up and she remembered just to turn it off and then on again. We’d tried the silliest thing; we moved on to the most obvious.
She’s starting a photography business soon, and I’m just so proud of her. I’m so proud of all my people and the fledgling adulthoods we’ve all started stacking up. There’s a sort of cement here, and I’m not afraid to leave and lose my place in line.
Here’s what I’ve cobbled together as an understanding, so far: whatever measure you are afraid of anything, you have to be that same amount of grateful, plus a little more. We leapfrog from one stage to another, and we’re never ready, because what does that even mean? That’s not a real thing. The real thing, the natural order of things, is choppier. It’s a series of silly-before-obvious, of loving but still leaving. It’s an acceptance of the draft that rushes in when we open ourselves.