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Intermezzo
May. 7th, 2010 10:44 pmFive weeks from today my boyfriend lands at the airport. I'll pick him up, we'll have dinner, probably go back to my place and then pack, among other things. The next day is my graduation ceremony. The day after is my party. The day after that is when the moving trailer gets here, and the day after that, the trailer gets picked up and I leave Seattle, on my way to my new home.
Today I've realized that I've begun that peculiar mental process of letting go, of pulling up roots and transplanting myself somewhere else entirely. I began it a while back, I think, when this was driving me crazy with guilt and sorrow and loss. I realized today that stage has passed, though. Today as I was driving, I wasn't driving on my 405, looking at my forests and my lake and my mountains. I saw them as a guest sees them, and it was wonderful and bittersweet and oddly relieving. This isn't home the same way anymore -- it's where I live, and that's all. It hasn't been that way for me for a long time, and I find it refreshing and slightly irksome all at once, given that I have five weeks still to get through.
For now I can appreciate both the detatchment and the beauty. It lets me look forward to what's to come without clinging to what I can't keep. By the time that fifth week rolls around, I'll be vaguely irritated at everything for not letting me move faster, for not making way for new vistas, for being here everytime I turn around to trip over and remind myself that I can't go yet. I'd skip that part if I could, that itching to be gone. I always feel like it will be perceived as a disservice to the place I've grown immensely fond of and the people I love who stay here, friends and family alike. I don't mean it to be, and it's really not. I just can't take it with me and I still have to go, and that means letting go, like an old lover you miss sometimes even though you know you're both better off.
I still don't know what I'm going to, mind you. I don't know how I'll put down roots yet, or where, or what form it'll take. I can just feel the earth loosening around them here, waiting for that final yank to set them free and let them be carried forward. I've reached the point, though, that I'm excited about that newness, about that idea of something new and mine and fresh that's just for me and no one else.
And, you know, not having the war of the toilet seats with my sons. But that's a tale for another time. :)
Today I've realized that I've begun that peculiar mental process of letting go, of pulling up roots and transplanting myself somewhere else entirely. I began it a while back, I think, when this was driving me crazy with guilt and sorrow and loss. I realized today that stage has passed, though. Today as I was driving, I wasn't driving on my 405, looking at my forests and my lake and my mountains. I saw them as a guest sees them, and it was wonderful and bittersweet and oddly relieving. This isn't home the same way anymore -- it's where I live, and that's all. It hasn't been that way for me for a long time, and I find it refreshing and slightly irksome all at once, given that I have five weeks still to get through.
For now I can appreciate both the detatchment and the beauty. It lets me look forward to what's to come without clinging to what I can't keep. By the time that fifth week rolls around, I'll be vaguely irritated at everything for not letting me move faster, for not making way for new vistas, for being here everytime I turn around to trip over and remind myself that I can't go yet. I'd skip that part if I could, that itching to be gone. I always feel like it will be perceived as a disservice to the place I've grown immensely fond of and the people I love who stay here, friends and family alike. I don't mean it to be, and it's really not. I just can't take it with me and I still have to go, and that means letting go, like an old lover you miss sometimes even though you know you're both better off.
I still don't know what I'm going to, mind you. I don't know how I'll put down roots yet, or where, or what form it'll take. I can just feel the earth loosening around them here, waiting for that final yank to set them free and let them be carried forward. I've reached the point, though, that I'm excited about that newness, about that idea of something new and mine and fresh that's just for me and no one else.
And, you know, not having the war of the toilet seats with my sons. But that's a tale for another time. :)
