Comfort in Trust

The day after the real estate agent open house last week, it was a fairly quiet day in our household. And it felt, for some reason, like one of the first real days in this new arrangement under our roof ~ a day that was going to begin to give us a glimpse into what life was going to look like with, um, both of us home all the time. Do you hear it? The theme music from Jaws?



Duh-duh-nuh-nuh, Duh-duh-nuh-nuh....doo-da-doooooooo.....

Like two great whites circling in the same cove, we moved around each other all day quietly. Which was fine for the most part, except for that one little bit in the morning when my husband wanted to do some work on the computer he just set up in our kitchen my shipping department:

{Sound of packing tape being screeched off of the dispenser. Sounds of paper folding.}

"Are you going to be doing that for a while?"

No big blow-up transpired - it was a minor hiccup - but it offered a glimpse. A glimpse into a future where we have to re-negotiate our space, which is perhaps where the act of moving will be beneficial. We can create new routines and new patterns in an entirely new environment. There, we won't have the additional challenge of having to pull ourselves out of the well-established pathways we've created for ourselves under this roof...right?

The week progressed peacefully enough, but I cannot omit the fact that as that peaceful-on-the-surface week unfolded, my emotions grew more turbulent. The disruptions felt like those moments when I'm on a plane - enjoying that small window of time when I am completely unreachable - and the seat belt light suddenly bings on. The energy on the plane shifts, and there are soon some slight bumpity-bumps in our flight path. Through the rougher patches of air, there can be magnificent jolts that feel as if the entire plane has just dropped down through the sky a few yards like a spider on a web. My adrenalin always surges in those moments, and I have to catch my breath. Last week, it was instances of sudden weepiness that were the prelude not to an adrenalin rush, but an emotional one. Knowing that if I insisted on trying to keep it all together it would eventually backfire beyond words, each day was a day of surrender ~ to the tears, to the confusion, to the truth that even as we face beautiful possibilities in front of us, we are also experiencing a loss of what is behind us. The life we have created and experienced in this house and in Santa Monica has been...well, words can't quite express the amazing-ness of it all...and moving away from this space and this particular point on the map of California is proving to be much harder than I'd anticipated.

There is part of me that feels like I should be handling all of this more "gracefully", with head held high, eyes beaming toward the future and arms open wide to accept whatever lays waiting for us beyond this chapter of our lives. I've read books and prayed and studied and written and had moments when I experienced the purest, brightest joy of presence and I shouldn't be such a wreck through this, right? I should be saying, "All is as it should be. All is perfect. I live in the loving acceptance of all that is."


Well, perhaps. Well, in fact, yes, but if I really want to live in such a state of presence and acceptance of what is, then I also must live in loving acceptance of the days when I'm a mess and feel decidedly ungraceful. Those days are part of this journey, and valuable for their own reasons. I can read and pray and study all I want, but if the goal of all that is to pull me away from my own humanity, then I've got it all wrong. My work isn't about avoiding the tangles ~ and the emotions associated with them ~ but learning how to embrace them, and be still with them, and let them guide me home.