In-Between

Everything seems to work out in the end, but what about when it’s not the end? What about that uncomfortable place between here and there?

Here we are in the middle, unsure of how this particular story ends: the one where our things are moved out of storage and into a new home. For now, we are at my in-laws house and then an Airbnb for six months in Leucadia.

I always looked at life as an adventure, but after having two kids, growing a bit older, and navigating grief, being flexible and allowing change comes with much greater resistance. My HSP-ness is heightened and I feel things, all the things. I’m like one of those lint rollers, but for my feelings and other people’s or places too. 

Most other big transitions in life I’ve managed with partying, workout goals, or work. Somehow staying busy so as not to feel the discomfort. But right now, pregnant and mostly a full time mom –  there is no numbing. There is just feeling and living. 

Moving feels right to us. The process has been smooth. And yet, we aren’t immune to the emotions, questions and fall out of a big life event. 

How exactly do I take the photograph off the wall that my dad helped me hang? How do I leave neighbors who helped me feel safe and well-loved? How do I leave a home where I know how to survive? A home that took a long time to feel like home. How do I leave the trees and trails that kept me grounded? Or walls that hold the condensation from my grief storms. How do I leave the room where Coura came into the world? My plumeria in the front yard that bloomed especially for us. 

Those questions are true. And so is this: our memories come with us. Who we are, what we’ve learned and how we’ve grown all gets packed and stored deep in the corners of our minds and hearts. None of that stays. 

Anxiety, fear and down days have followed. But I have the tools. My anchor is here, inside of me. The house was never my safety after-all. When I want to run from the discomfort and fear, my heart is saying, “Come home. Stay here. This is the safest place you can be.” So I am working hard with every deep breath to come back to center – to release what’s not mine and come home to what’s true. 

I am the anchor. I am the anchor. I am the anchor. 

The act of moving is an obvious transition, but aren’t we always in a transition? If not from the greatest one – birth and death – from one season to the next, from one goal to the next. We don’t often dwell in a beginning or ending before we find ourselves in the middle. 

As we were touching up the paint in the house, I saw the pencil mark my dad scribbled to effortlessly hang up my cherished “Aquabumps” photograph. I left the mark untouched. Even if it gets painted over one day, his mark has been made. Even when a new neighbor moves in, our time there doesn’t get erased. 

Transitions are loose and schedules are scattered. Uncertainty is what we are eating for all three meals, working to find a way to digest this new existence. One that’s not forever, but that is for right now. 

Everything is up in the air. 

I’ve always wanted to fly.

One thought on “In-Between

  1. awesome

    On Mon, Nov 23, 2020 at 7:22 PM Altered Latitude wrote:

    > Jenna posted: ” Everything seems to work out in the end, but what about > when it’s not the end? What about that uncomfortable place between here and > there? Here we are in the middle, unsure of how this particular story ends: > the one where our things are moved out of s” >

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