Arriving

I have arrived.  This is the moment when things begin to come into focus.  The boxes are unpacked, the curtains are hung, (most of) the heavy lifting is done.  My child, by some miracle, is asleep in her room at 3 o’clock in the afternoon, and I am here on this couch (this couch that is no longer my bed!) and for the first time in months I feel calm, and rested, and ready to explore.
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Moving across the country with a small child is no easy feat.  The past two months of deciding and packing and planning and wrapping and leaving and landing and unpacking and organizing and procuring and installing and wiring and mounting and begging (your child to go to sleep) has been a blur of endless activity and how I made it all happen, I’m not quite sure.  But here I am now, in my new home, and there is not one ounce of regret or longing for the place I left behind.  California was good to me, it granted me many beautiful years to sow and grow and plant my roots, and I will always be grateful.  But it was time to move on.

Having arrived in Colorado, it is abundantly clear to me that I could not have forged ahead with the same clarity of heart and mind that this new environment offers me.  Simple things like exploring the city with Nova, delicious ice cream and a spice shop, our neighborhood cafe and our playground and traveling by foot, dim sum on a whim with my family, making new friends -- the newness is good for my soul.  

The autonomy of living in our own home, one that belongs and has belonged only to us, of creating a space to settle into and empowering myself to learn to put up curtains and hang light fixtures and mount a flat screen tv (singlehandedly) has been good for my self confidence.  It’s amazing how transformed you can feel with a drill in your hand and another piece of the puzzle in place.

In the evening I drive home into the sunset, and in the morning the sunrise greets me at my bedroom window, streaks of pink and orange illuminating the sky.  The city rises just beyond our front lawn, a large expanse of park filled with families and animals and the promise of community and connection.  At night the city lights remind us that we are not alone, that we are part of something greater here, and that there is nothing more to feel than gratitude.  Gratitude for the opportunity to explore, for the spaciousness that lies ahead, for the freedom I have claimed for myself.  

The most beautiful thing about this move is that it is filled with hope and optimism.  I did, in a sense, leave a different life behind, but there is no sense of running away.  Instead it’s been a running towards -- towards my future, the next chapter, the possibility of new friendships and experiences and yes, even new love.  This summer will be three years since George passed, and I feel the final grip on the life we had hoped for beginning to dissolve.  My heart is making space now.  There is an opening, an invitation.  A beginning.

The most challenging part about a change of this magnitude has been transitioning from “do” mode back into “create” mode.  The discipline it takes to sit here and write instead of putting up my new blinds or shopping for a shower curtain is real.  But over the past months I have felt that part of myself slipping away, behind the to-do list and the glass of wine and the exhaustion of caring for an anxious and sleepless child, and I’m ready to find my way back.  Who and what I choose to become matters now, more than ever, and I need to remember that I am more than a to-do list.  I have a purpose, and I have a voice.  

This is my first attempt to re-engage.  To discover who I am in this new place, and what I can offer.  I am both excited and terrified, ready and trembling, bridging the gap between the life I wanted and the life that is waiting for me, walking into the unknown with curiosity and wonder.