So we did it.
We moved to Seward on Saturday.
Moved from our house in Anchorage to a 30 foot trailer on the side of a mountain.
And this morning, we dropped Elias at the middle school, Olive at the elementary, and then Nick and I drove off in the fog and rain, leaving our kids within the walls of academia unknown to me, where I am not pacing the halls, listening for signs of unrest.
Instead, I paced the trailer, until Nick sent me on a walk, and I found myself with my hands in the dirt, pulling grass and chickweed from my new perennial garden site, the roots releasing easily after a couple inches of rain saturated the soil these last few days.
"It rains every day in Seward," Olive said to her brother, not glum, just matter of fact, like a teacher telling her class the rules of the room.
And I'm OK with her believing this, so that the first rays of sunshine arrive like fairy dust, casting a spell of appreciation and joy.
I just encountered my own magic mist at our local post office, the only one in a town without a stop light.
"It might be something I ordered," Nick assumed, as we waited in line for a package.
The kind man who sold us a storage unit, mere minutes before, stood a few people in front of us in line, reminding me how Olive saw two children she remembered from camp at the grocery store the previous day and another new camp friend at the middle school when we dropped of supplies for Elias on the eve of the first day.
As we talked with members of Elias's team, all fully competent, that classic teacher mix of warm and stern that leaves you feeling like your kids will be cared for as they are contained, Olive took off her boots and socks and ran through the halls with two other elementary girls, teacher's kids, hanging out on an inservice day, prancing in a line of three behind the music teacher as he set up his new space, peaking at the big kids playing ball in the gym, going out a parent's classroom door to stomp in a puddle or two. Olive said goodbye to the girls two times before we left and still turned on the tears when we wouldn't let her run back for a third time before departing, my girl who worried nightly about leaving all her friends in Anchorage, bonding so easily with a couple Sewardites.
She's gonna be Ok, I thought, as I watched her play.
He's gonna be ok, I thought, when we said goodbye to Elias's resource teacher and T.A.'s.
When we reached the counter, the mail clerk took our slip and returned with a box with my name on it. A package from Colby College, my alma matter.
"Did you order something for me?" I asked Nick.
I opened the box to find a brand new Pendleton wool blanket, blue with a big C, for Colby, for captain, for Christy. Along with this note:
Colby Women's soccer heard about your blanket being stolen, so with the help of some amazing people in Athletics, we hope this one brings you joy and you can create new memories with it. Wishing you all the best in your new place and you always have a home here on "the hill" with Colby Women's soccer.
I learned that my old teammate Kara Hooper contacted the new coach at Colby, someone I never even played for, never sweat for, never knew, and she worked with Colby athletics to not only give me a new blanket, but to find the only one left that still looks like the one I earned over twenty years ago as a young scrappy slide tackler who wanted nothing more than to get dirty and play.
And so in the span of ten days, I went from waking up to our car stolen and the feeling that people generally suck, to an overwhelming love for my community, which includes folks I've never met but who span out from my hearts center like the fog drifting over Resurrection bay.
May we all remember our connections to each other, and live in a way that speaks to the goodness of it all.
Cheers my friends!