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. And pray.
There are no atheists
on turbulent airplanes. ~Erica Jong
Deborah
4 comments:
I hate transitions, too. Even when I know it will all be okay on the other end of the change, I still hate the turbulence (great analogy, btw) involved in getting there.
Hang in there! *hugs*
Thank you, Linda. I know things will be good--I'm just a tad impatient in wanting to get settled. I feel like a guest who's not been invited to sit down. :)
Take care!
I know being in limbo is hard, but I am excited for you and this new phase of your life that is about to begin.
I hope you'll keep us posted as you make your big move!
Thanks, Lara! I am excited, too. And sad. I feel like a teen about graduate and go off to University out of state...I wish I could take all my loved ones with me. :)
Take care!
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