It's back to school time. Another transition. And just when I thought I was past them (except in my writing), here came a doozy!
As my main character in my first novel, Deena (who frames most things in her life around or through her children) said: "They don't call the toughest part of childbirth 'transition' for nothing."
Transitions are HARD. They are in labor and delivery, and they are when you are writing and trying to deftly glissade from one scene or chapter to the next and you feel like you have the literary equivalent of two left feet. But transitions in life are the hardest of all. Right up there on the top ten is moving. Maybe most especially, downsizing (though I've taken to calling it An Exorcism to Dispossess of Possessions Possessing Me, or EDPPM for short). Actually, I'm sure the hardest transition of all, hands down, is whatever one you find yourself in at the moment. My husband and I are downsizing, so that's the hardest. We decided to do this "while we're young" (early 50's) and found out that downsizing itself ages you. Fast. It's not the downsizing of stuff. That's surprisingly easy. It's packing up all these memories...
First of all, can I just say what a misnomer "Empty Nest" is? Okay, so there are no little ones flapping about the house anymore. But when they fledge, they do not strap onto their little wings all the stuffed animals, books, clothing, posters, lacrosse sticks, sleds, trophies, dried flowers and whatnot, and take it with them.
And while I'm on a kid rant: Who made the rule that your children keep leaving you, over and over? First they learn to walk, and they toddle... away! From you! Then they go off to kindergarten and once you stop weeping you find that you can get done in one hour what previously has taken you all day. Or all week. Mothers who are experiencing their child's first day of kindergarten are the world's most productive people. Really, they should be gathered up and put in a room together and I'm confident they'd solve all the world's problems. In one hour. (And by the way, if you just seat yourself next to a mother whose child is in Day 1 of kindergarten, you might finish your novel simply by drafting off her.) And then your little tyke learns to ride a bike, and they're off around the neighborhood, and beyond. And then it's summer camp, drivers licenses, concerts, and then, before you've even fully accepted that she can zip her own coat, she's off to college. But that one's okay, because it's so darn exciting-- for them, and for you (especially if it's your youngest). Imagine Day 1 of kindergarten times... four years! So get busy, because before you've even driven the last of the 1200 miles home from dropping her off at her freshman dorm, you are turning right back around to attend her graduation. Then she moves to the opposite coast. Then she decides to stay there. But, amazingly, all these things seemed to happen when they were supposed to, even if I initially didn't feel ready for them. Even near catastrophe...
On the heels of all this, one dark summer's night a raging wildfire perilously close to your home and you get the reverse 911 call telling you to prepare to evacuate. You and your husband race around the house and madly collect The Most Important Things. And then you stop, hold each other, breathing the smoke-filled air, and together you have a sudden and profound realization: you are completely fine if you have to move forward in life with only what is in your arms (each other), and the dog (at that moment sandwiched like the trembling cream in an Oreo cookie between in the middle of said hug) and what is packed into two mid-size cars. And off you go to your friend's home for two nights feeling displaced, dispossessed and disoriented. And oddly and wonderfully liberated. (There's a huge metaphor here for downsizing one's writing, but that's for another post.)
And the next thing you know you're selling and mostly giving away your stuff right and left, and feeling like you are on THE BEST DIET EVER. And as you're looking for a new place for just the two of you, with a small yard for the dog, a nice kitchen because (Thank you God!) he wants to learn to cook, and a writer's garret for you, and the two of you are dreaming and scheming again, and suddenly you feel a vaguely familiar breath of air in your sails.
A wind from long ago, from your twenties, has found you. It's traveled so far and so long that it is gentle in your worn sail cloth, yet strong enough to push you forward, over the waves of transition, toward that sparkling horizon. You are just the two of you, on a new adventure, just when you needed it.
Transitions are hard, but they almost always land you at Better.
