Brackish Water

We are in that place in-between, the no-man's land of change, pushed and pulled by opposing forces, the part that wants to stay with all that's warm and familiar and the part that wants to travel into the unknown.

Boxes lay scattered around our living spaces, signs of a pending move, and yet I still find myself planting Petunias and Lobelia in the pots by my front door. As I walk around the yard, I'm torn between a desire to improve my current flower beds and dig up plants for Seward, to bring to my imagined gardens on the property where we do not yet have a home.

Its hard to leave the comfort of this house, the one we moved into two weeks after Olive's birth, with the world's best neighbors, and a new bakery two doors down. Our neighborhood comes alive in the summer, with kids on bikes and couples walking dogs and endless impromptu social gatherings on the sidewalk, in driveways, playing catch in the middle of the road.

We love this place.

And we feel called to the woods, to the mountainside overlooking Resurrection Bay, to endless miles of remote wilderness as our backyard and a small town only two miles away.

I have to believe we will find another tribe amidst the hardy folks of Seward, and yet I wish I could bring my current one with me. I wish I could transport this house and these flowers and these neighbors and friends--bring them all with us so that moving wasn't so hard.

"Mom, I don't want to move to Seward," Olive cried to me the other night before bed. "I'm going to be sad."

"I know Babe, me too." I kissed her forehead.

"I don't want to live in the woods."

Olive's words tightened around my heart like the grip of my boy who doesn't realize he's squeezing too hard-- for Nick and I often wonder if what feels right for us will be the right move for our family of four.

"It will be different, Olive. But it will be an adventure."

"But I'm scared of bears."

Bears don't scare me as much as the weight of making decisions that affect the people I love. This power we hold as parents to alter our children's worlds on the spin of a dime, on a longing, on a leap, on the bare thread of hope that we are doing it right.

And there are bears in those woods.

But I told Olive I've been going to David's property for 15 years and I've never seen a bear by his house and between the dogs and the amount of noise we make the bears would be more scared of us. 

"But Mom, can all the bedrooms be up on the second floor? Because bears can't get upstairs."  

And just like that the lasso around my heart loosens, as I realize she's worried about her big brother Elias--her nemesis, her mirror, her shadow, her light-- with his projected room downstairs, as all our imagined house plans have him on the first floor due to his mobility issues.

We compromise by promising to lock the door of the house that is yet to be built, on the land we still have to finish clearing, that holds the next chapter for this family of mine.

I can't read ahead.

All I can do is be here in this messy place between what's known and what's to come, this boundary space with its brackish water and endless boxes waiting to be filled.

And I can pack patience, hope, grief, and of course, love alongside the pottery and linens.

Comments

[Lois Galgay Reckitt]

I have so missed your thought-filled energy. And hope our paths may one day cross again. Wishing you a smooth path.

[Richard Everett]

And a new adventure begins!

[Christy]

Thanks my friends:)