scribblechic

While it is no secret, here, that our family is moving, the decision has been a private knowledge in our daily lives. Slowly and intentionally, with an emphasis on more intimate sharing, we have begun telling our friends the news. It is a slow process, one we have not hurried for the emotions of each telling. The rush of nerves and anxious excitement, we swing high with our joy and low with inevitable loss.

The balance of our emotions is a happy anticipation, but the broad sweeping arcs of enthusiasm and sentiment pull at our energy. It was our daughter who recognized the physical and emotional exhaustion in this process and created a simpler expectation of one telling per day. At this rate, it was unavoidable that the news might announce itself.

Monday a sign appeared in our yard. It was anticipated and still unexpected; a premature proclamation that quickly interrupted our intentions with a louder presence. In some ways, it made room for necessary telling; creating space for conversations we couldn’t seem to begin. In other ways, the abrasive and impersonal interruption to the landscape of our silence was overwhelming for those we would have preferred a gentler introduction to our announcement.

Either way, it has become official. The rhythm of our telling has changed, but our joy is a little less obscured in the open.

My diary of our most recent decision to move is, on the surface, no more than a series of journal entries on our daily progress; the emotions and choices that mark this milestone. Underneath the unexceptional is an extraordinary experience; a subtext that informs a greater appreciation for the accidents of fate that gift us remarkable opportunities to be present in moments of distraction.

Each day there has been a happy surprise. I’ve noted the generosity of so many kind souls, but today I am thinking of the serendipitous alignment of strangers.

Last night things slowly started to derail. The lengthy list of last-minute projects wasn’t progressing in accordance with the hour and our paint supplies were running bare. It was bad luck at the worst time, but something manageable that could be addressed with a specific effort and so I ran to the hardware store moments before it closed.

It was this task that aligned my path with summer friends from a time long passed, late afternoons at the neighborhood park district pool when the crowds had dispersed and the water had turned cool. They were a memory of a year made permanent in a single photograph, but strangers to the season of different schools.

Yesterday, scanning unfamiliar aisles for my husband’s last-minute request, I was thinking only of what must be done when I saw a face more familiar for the heat of the day and the time of the year. Our summer friends. We gathered casually, disrupting the traffic of hurried shoppers and remembered out loud what we had forgotten while filling in the gaps between our last hello.

I told them about our impending move and they told me about their daughter’s illness, everything and nothing in between. It was as if we had never lost the time between pool days, the ease of old conversations and shared smiles. But everything is different. Their little girl is ill and I cannot dwell on the inconvenience of an impractical timeline for house projects.

Coming home from the store it was clear there was nothing my last-minute errand would fix; our house could not ready herself in time for this day.

Today is a new day and this summer is greater than one decision, it is a season of friendship and chance that invites a greater appreciation for stolen moments and borrowed perspectives. It is a day to rest, replenish, and redirect.

Up until this moment I haven’t allowed myself to fully entertain the possibility of failure; this decision, to move, feels fated. The past week has been a whirlwind of activity, but each action felt intentional; our footing on this path sure.

Today the realtor for our current home voiced uncertainties that created room enough for doubt. It was a necessary question, an important what if. There is no easy change, no accomplishment that does not invite risk, still I struggled all afternoon against the fear of failure I cannot control.

We could lose money, have to give up a new house we have come to love, put our children through unnecessary change. With all the what ifs I began to wonder, why bother? Why leave behind such certainty and stability at the cost of uncertain success.

We could stay put in a home and community that is familiar. Other opportunities will come along, different houses and career choices. We could move later when our children are older; when the decision is safer.

Except we can’t. I see the joy on my husband’s face reflected in my children’s company and I can feel the importance of this moment.

Just this once I don’t want to play it safe. I want to remember the childhood joy of counting off the heavy slap of swirling jump rope arches; the posture of flexing into chance undeterred by the possibility of poor timing or the embarrassment of getting tangled in failure.

There have been too many moments I’ve watched opportunity sweep past me from the sidelines, hesitating too long in the rhythm of change. I’m ready, to count off and jump.