|Photo: Copyright, Deborah Anderson|
From the first crushing instant of our birth when we're squeezed squalling from the warm liquid cocoon of the womb into the glaring clamor of oneness, we are struggling to adapt.
Mothers, fathers, grandparents, breast milk, and lovers and friends when we're older—much older—offer guidance and support, but they do not adapt for us. They wrap us in flannel, pat our backs, jiggle us as they pace the floor; apply Band-Aids, pour cough syrup, plump pillows; chase boogie men from under the bed and Exes from our lives; they help us study, invite us to movies or pub nights, laugh, kvetch, and commiserate with us, but they don't stop crying, worrying, or hurting for us.Each of us chooses to accept solace, medicine, love and/or friendship; embrace wisdom, welcome new, tweak technique to fit our needs, and adapt accordingly. Or not. Change happens regardless.
I know. I've lived it. So have you.Remember when your first baby tooth wiggled under the pressure of your tongue? Or you completed your first wobbly solo on a two-wheeler? What about that training bra, first kiss—and broken heart? You changed. Adapted. Traded white t-shirts for under wires and plastic Scooby-Doo razors for the real thing. Kindergarten to graduation; pig-tails to page-boy; Sippy-cup to wine glass; you changed. And adapted; often loving what Change brought you—driver's license, High School Diploma, Victoria's Secret, admiring looks, independence, your own bank account, new love, old money—freedom, and as you adjusted to eye hooks and inflated gas prices, so did those around you. Some better than others.
I tend to adapt well—once I make the decision to embrace Faith and Change. It's In-Between that gets me.Limbo and I are not good buddies. And I don't get along well with Indecision, either. Too often when they're around, so is their ugly cousin, Turbulence. And my perfectly ordered life hangs over a gaping chasm called Unknown.
I am there now. Like Wile E. Coyote, front paws on one side of the chasm, back paws on the other, taut, trembling; unable to move one way or the other without help, or risking a serious fall.Hubby accepted a promotion. It requires us to move 400 miles to a new city. For six months he's split his time between here and there. When our house sells we'll all go there. Away from family. To other family. Away from friends. To other friends. Away from home and lifestyle we know and love, to one hidden the shadows of Expectation and Intent, the path there lit only by Faith. Our only guarantee is our lifestyle will change; and our love for family and friends will not. Here or there, there or here; love and true friendship remains.
In the interim, we adapt; me to single-parenthood, him to evening solitude. Limbo and Indecision hold sway to help us prepare, collect the tools, knowledge, encouragement, advice, and skills necessary to make the transition. And Faith gentles Turbulence's tantrum.When you're 40,000 feet up, the landing strip still a long way out and the ride rocky knocking the oxygen mask into your face, you can close your eyes and scream in terror--or you can adapt. Put on the mask, tighten your seatbelt, hold hands with those closest to you, and remember to breathe.
There are no atheists on turbulent airplanes. ~Erica Jong