How's your pain today?

Most of the stories that spin my head--the conflicts, the twists, the what-might-happen-nexts--they aren't mine to live or to tell. I'm a supporting character, sure. But most of what I do these days is stand beside the protagonist and say "I'm here in the absence of answers, through every if and when."

We breathe in, then out, then in again. On some days, it's the best we can do.

I try to inhale hope and exhale fear, but I usually screw up the timing just like I do in yoga. Wait, what, we're supposed to be inhaling up, exhaling down? Damn. It's a wonder my lungs fill up at all.

I am fragile, raw and vulnerable. So are you. And yet we're all so quick to disguise ourselves as resilient, unshakable, as fine, everything's fine, and you?...

When I'm at the store, the hospital, the gym, I look for the other pairs of tired eyes. I don't know their stories, but I know a smile from a stranger never makes anything worse. (Unless it's a creepy stranger and a creepy smile, but I'm careful not to be creepy.)

Anyway, my point is that we're all somewhere on the spectrum of pain, and in those moments when we're only a 1 or a 2 and life feels okay, we can maybe hold the hands or smile at the eyes of the 8 out of 10s. And when it's our turn to be a a 7, 8 or 9, maybe we can answer honestly when asked "how's your pain today?"

At the top

I keep thinking about last year, where we were in the day by day of moving from there to here. I remember eating sweet potato tots on a patio restaurant in South Dakota on the 3rd of July. I remember the sudden swoosh of a Montana road, the butterflies, the shock of color, cliffs and craned necks.

When we drove into Alaska for the very first time, I hadn't put a name to the face of the mountain that made me marvel, not even as we posed in front of it. Denali. McKinley.

I've seen it now a hundred times, maybe more. All it takes is a clear day, and there it is--white against blue--popping up in the second mile of my go-to running route.
Sometimes we take a day trip to get even closer, to skip rocks and peer across the river at 20,000 unfathomable feet.

When friends ask, I tell them we're happy here. We are. Though at times this Alaskan life feels like a caricature, like my husband bringing home salmon he pulled from a net in the Kenai is only playing to the stereotype. Now all that's left is to buy an RV and a husky named Nome. (I admit it--I do want a husky!)

But not interestingly enough, I still manage to be a cliched suburban soccer mom in the last frontier. My car is filthy from carpooling and cleats, and I am carting kids everywhere like my life depends on it. It doesn't. What would happen if I woke up and decided that we could skip soccer practice and medical release forms and gymnastics and school registration and all-women's road races and all the things that keep me driving and running to and fro?
Maybe we'd play a game of scrabble in the middle of the day or drink pink lemonade from the good china tea cups. Maybe we'd go camping, forget dinner and fill up on potato chips and s'mores. That wouldn't be the end of the world.
Maybe it'd be the start of it. 
(For the record, we did all that, and the only regret was not bringing more chips.)

My son loves to skateboard, and I think he's nuts. My daughter loves to play dolls and dress up in frills, and I don't get it, not even a little bit. I love to run so fast it hurts like bloody hell, and no one in the family--not even me--gets that either. But we're all here, doing our thing.

Sometimes, I drag them on a hike to the top of a mountain, and the whole way up is torture. She whines about her legs hurting. And he whines about slowing down for her. And I whine about how much they're whining. And then we get to the top.

And at the top, we get amnesia. We have no idea how our legs got so tired. There's no record of the bickering/whining/dragging of grumpy arses up an unrelenting switchback.
At the top, we use every one of our five senses to taste smell feel hear see the view.
At the top, the trees look so tiny, and is that the forest?
At the top, I shed my status as a stereotype and target demographic. I'm just a person, with my people. And we are all the best kind of alive, at the top.

{Just writing today with Heather.}

When the wallflower gives way to the fool

I grew up believing trees were meant for climbing, however high the branches could hold, that falling wasn't the worst fate, that great heights outweighed the gravity of broken bones.

I'm not sure what age it was when fear grew like a layer of bark, a ring in the trunk--the kind you'd see if you cut me down and measured the length of my years. But there was a time, not too far past 14, when fear of falling, failing, overcame the fear of missing out, the thrill of swaying with the wind in the tip-top branch.

I lived afraid for a good many years, not so much of scraped knees, but of laughter and pointed fingers, of foolishness, of judgment.

I'm not back to climbing trees, no, not by a long shot. But I've started running full tilt against the wind. When it's age I want to defy, I turn to the track instead of the spa. It does no favors for my skin, adding years only to my heart. At 40, I'll be the fastest I've ever been. Maybe that's not saying much. (I wasn't terribly fast at 14.) But it speaks volumes to the part of me that used to be afraid.

See? I just said "used to be", like I'm not living in fear of what anyone thinks, like I'm not afraid to give my whole heart to beat loudly into the day and be made the fool of dramatic proportions. Finally, finally, I'd rather be the fool than the wallflower.

I see it in the way I live. I see it in the way I parent. I see it in the way I've stopped caring so much about the what ifs in favor of asking the why nots. Maybe this is what it means to grow up. Not to give up the climb, but to let go of the fear that I might fall.

Mahalo, etc.

I never know where to start, usually because I should've started years ago. Do you pretend the years never were and start fresh? Do you go back and wax chronological?

The kids are weaponizing their stuffed animals. There's an invention room and a testing room. They skip room to room. An F-18 bomber has been fashioned from a soccer pillow. It's raining in Hawaii, and we don't care. (Jimmy cracked corn as well. Still don't care.) They say mahalo for the best. vacation. ever. I say mahalo for having eyes that sparkle like everything is wild and new. Their pupils widen, pulses quicken like it's the easiest, most natural way to live. This is the glory of youth.

I live vicariously. I didn't know it wouldn't last forever. I should've, I mean, is anything more obvious? But I didn't. I was in such a hurry to be a responsible adult. Too bad. I would've liked to stay wide-eyed and wild beyond the age of 13. But, I'm still obsessed with whether there will be dessert, so, at least I have that in common with the children.

::

C brought home a school packet yesterday. He'd written, "An example of someone who shows the habit of amazement and wonder is my mom, because she loves nature and when we came to Alaska, she was amazed." He drew a picture of me with bulbous eyes and weird hair. It's not terribly flattering. But I'm not sure I can think of a compliment that would have made me happier. There was another worksheet about persistence. I was the example in that one too. He said it was because I run marathons. I'm glad there weren't any worksheets asking for examples of people who are impatient or yellers. I'm glad it was just about wonder and persistence.

::

We came home to sunshine. This is breakup season in Alaska. The ice begins to break, to melt, to disappear. The sun stays up later and later, until it is higher in the sky at 6 pm than it ever was for the whole of January. It's easier to be happy on the days when the sun lingers above the mountains until after dinner. It's easier to love where I live when we can go night skiing in the sunshine.

::

I never know where to start, but I can usually figure out an ending. Usually. Not today. Today, I'm content just to ramble and to elude to a vacation during which I was so sick I couldn't go 30 seconds without a tissue, a vacation in which rain didn't daunt us even in the slightest, mostly because it wasn't the freezing sort. The truth is today I don't care in the least bit about an ending. I'm happy to have finally just begun.

In the plod after plod {Just Write}

Sometimes the hours are rote, a plod after plod through daily dirt. Sometimes the miles are long, like manning the doily booth at the flea market. No one stops to examine the lace or ask for a price. And it's one thing when life is lonely, but when it's both tedious and lonely, all you can think is maybe you should give up on selling doilies. Or running 20 miles on the treadmill.

But even the rote hours deliver the surging moments. Ideas surface, endorphins rise, strides lengthen. (And doilies sell. Just maybe?) Somewhere in the plod after plod, you begin to feel strong where you once felt lame. Somewhere in these everyday hours, the dull staleness morphs into a brilliant stillness. And you cling to it like desert icicles. Who cares that it always melts away? It's magic while it lasts.

Every now and then in the plod after plod, the legs stop feeling like bricks. You look down to see a rushing ground. You sprint. You smile. You wonder--is this how it feels to float? The drudgery may be back tomorrow or maybe by mile seven, but for now, you are no longer lonely. You are no longer bored. You are as alive in your own life as a person gets to be. 

 

And this. This is why you keep running. Or selling doilies. Or mothering. Or doing whatever it is in life that you do. 

 

Because in every faceless desolate 

step-after-step minute, 

there is a chance to find a desert icicle, 

to be surprised by speed or 

astonished by stillness, 

and to feel 

so very much alive.

::

I have no idea where the doilies reference came from. The running, yes, because it's the only darn thing I seem to do these days. But doilies. Really? I have to blame the doilies on Heather, since she's the one who started this whole Just Write nonsense. (And I love her for it.)

On the swell and the crash {Just Write}

There's grass weaving a pattern through the pavement. And there's wind carrying a scented cocktail of sea and blossoms. And there's me, running with mountains to my left, waves to my right, looking but not seeing. I left sub zero temps to escape to this paradise with my husband, and I have no business being anything less than euphoric as I run without hat and gloves for the first time in months.

But I'm not anything close to euphoric. At best, I'm content. At worst, I'm disappointed. And somewhere in the middle, I'm trying to talk myself into gratitude, willing myself to stay in the moment, loathing the way I can't seem to outrun the anxiety.

I want to believe that I'm easily pleased, that I'm mostly a happy person. But there are moments adding up to hours and days and even weeks when I'm close enough to the edge to lose my footing, when the sturdy trail narrows into inches, when I'm one footfall away from a faceplant.

I don't want you to see the ugliness. I don't want you to know how irritated I was with the rooster that kept waking me up at 3 am, or with the coffee maker that didn't have any filters, or with myself for leaving the camera charging cord at home, or with the way our plans were foiled by a road closure. Because for real. I'm in freaking Hawaii celebrating my wedding anniversary with my awesome husband. It's negative eleven degrees at home where my awesome children are being wonderfully cared for by my awesome parents. How the hell can I feel so crabby and disappointed with all that awesome floating around? What is WRONG with me?

Don't answer that.

Here's the thing. I know what's wrong. Imagine the ocean, the swell of the waves, the way they rise and fall. Imagine a mountain, the highest peak, the way it juts like the tip of a triangle into the horizon. I want to perch on that tip, that narrow, steep, impossible top. I want to float on that swell, that fleeting, porous, impossible top. But that's not how it works. How it works is that you crash into the sand. How it works is that you tumble down the mountain. (Jack and Jill will vouch for me on this). How it works is that the highs are never quite as high as we hope they'll be. And the lows are far too frequent.

I don't know what the answer is. Gratitude is a big part of it, I'm sure of that. Meditation and prayer. Hugging the awesome people in your life. Smiling more. Visualizing anxiety in the form of a person and then punching it in the face. These are all good ideas, but really, what do I know? I'm not the answer lady, not on this one.

But here's what I do know. It helps to know that we aren't alone. It helps to know that even people with picture perfect lives (guilty!) feel totally effed up at times. It helps to know that these valleys, these crashes, these crumbly-earthed trails, these are the rule, not the exception. No one gets to linger on that impossible top of the mountain. No one gets to float endlessly on the swells. I'm telling you this because I don't want to feel like something's wrong with me, and I don't want you to feel like something's wrong with you. If we must live mostly in the valley or in the climb or in the fall, let's at least give each other good, honest company along the way. Yes?


And speaking of good company, I'm just writing today, with Heather.

White Hatted Mountain (Just Write)

There are a hundred things I've been meaning to write, and a hundred ways I've been thinking I'd say them. But I've run a hundred miles in these twenty days. And the miles steal my words, quiet my heart. They take away my urge to speak, replace it with an urge to listen (and to eat).

Today I ran a new road. I hugged the curve, pad padded on the gravel shoulder, lifted my head, and bam, I ran right into Autumn.

Fall here isn't so much the turning leaves as it is the mountains putting back on their white hats. The tallest ones go first. They wear them well after Labor Day in the most scandalous unfashionable magnificent way.

From here on out, I'm going to take my cues from the tall, gutsy white-hatted mountain who lives around the corner from me. Today she told me to stop slouching and stretch tall into a quiet rhythm. To stop caring whether it might keep raining, to start seeing the faces in the clouds. To give up hoping to be heard, to bundle up and to lean hard into listening.

Do you know what's beautiful in the rain? (Just Write)

It's not always unicorn-shaped glaciers and rainbows around here. Sometimes it's just the rain, minus the bow, for days on end. The Alaskan clouds aren't so great at reading the social cues. Reluctant to part, they linger long after the proverbial hostess clears the table.

The latest spell of clouds and rain lasted just long enough for me to forget what a sunset looked like. Such that when I caught the orange and pink hues peaking through the pine trees just now, I nearly flipped out. "ohmygosh ohmygosh, I've got to take a picture. I wonder if that's the aurora borealis? Ohmyword it's just so gorgeous! This stupid phone photo isn't going to to do it justice!" And so on...

You learn to appreciate, to celebrate the rarities, whatever they may be, wherever you are.

::

Yesterday, I wanted so desperately to hike to a scenic overlook here in town. But we woke to rain and clouds. And my son complained of a sore throat. And my daughter complained of a severe hiking aversion. And I knew right then that no amounts of bribery and sugary snacks were going to make that hike feasible, let alone pleasant.

I picked at the leftover corn bread and sulked for all of five minutes before it hit me. You live in freakin' Alaska. Quit your pouting and go find something beautiful. Pretty sure glaciers don't melt in the rain, you big whiny baby. At noon, I was googling "glaciers near Anchorage". Two hours later we were standing on the shores of a glacial lake. 

The clouds, the rain, they hung on. But so did I. That's what raincoats and boots and triple shot lattes are for. It's going to rain and snow for most of the year. No choice but to grin and gear it.

But here's what I'm really trying to say:
Do you know what's beautiful in the rain?

So
very
many
things.

In which I offer 10 not very practical tips for surviving a move (Just Write)

From a twilight run in Jasper, where I found my happy place / pace.

I know I said I'd be back with the rest of the story from Jasper onward, but that was before All The Things came, before my tail spin into a bottomless dish pack.

And just to be clear, dear Pedro--weakest link on the packing team--the box labeled "boys bedding" was actually a bunch of pictures and frames and old towels. That made me super mad, and I wanted to hit you on the head with the frying pan I couldn't find for two days. But don't take it personally. I've wanted to hit a lot of things with a frying pan lately.

On the bright side, I do have a chair now. Time to sit, however, not so much...

::

Yesterday, C had a melt down about not wanting to play the piano and about how no one loves him anymore, apparently because we were making him play the piano. This is quite atypical for my normally even-keeled boy. (The dramatics are his sister's bailey wick.)

So I told him to put on his shoes and follow me. As we ran around the block in the rain, I relayed the story about how earlier this week, I got so angry and frustrated and discouraged that I hid in the closet and cried and thought bad words and wanted to stomp holes through the floor.

"You did?" He looked up at me with surprise, like it was a relief not to be the only crazy one in the family.

"Yeah, I was a mess, Buddy. Daddy heard me and told me to forget about the boxes all over the floor and just go for a run. He was right about the run. It helped a lot. I cleared my head and prayed and thought about the good and beautiful things, like the cool weather and the fireweed and the mountains in our new backyard."

I squeezed his shoulder as we walked up the driveway. "So, did the run help a little bit?"

'Yeah, a little bit, I guess," he shrugged.

I rumbled his hair and moved his face toward me by the top of his rain-soaked little head. "Everything is harder right now, even the things that used to feel simple--like playing your easiest book on the piano. But it'll get easier, I promise."

"And Buddy?
You know I love you, right?"

He kicked off his shoes and cast me a sideways glance. "Yeah. I know."

::

You'll never see a post here touting 10 easy tips for surviving a military move. I seriously have no helpful advice on how to keep Pedro from mislabeling the bedding boxes. But if I had to give some tips, like if for instance someone held a packing tape dispenser to my head and said "MOVING TIPS! NOW! GO! That is, if you don't want this tape pulling every last red hair on your head...."

Then these would be my tips:
1) Blow off piano practice or unpacking or whatever it is that's making you crazy.
2) Then go for a run.
3) Find someone you love and
4) Give them a big sweaty hug.
5) Do the ugly cry together.
6) Say out loud just how discouraged you feel.
7) Then give voice to how blessed you are. (Reminder. Not being able to find your frying pan because you have too many boxes = first world problem.)
8) Write until you feel human again.
9) Go for another run. Give another big sweaty hug. Maybe take a shower too, if you can find the towels.
10) And when you finally find the frying pan, just put it away. Just put it away, and nobody gets hurt.

If these tips seem lame, keep in mind, I was under hypothetical duress when I came up with them. Also? I was just writing. I feel a million times better when I do that.

Adventure tends to make a mess of things (Just Write)

My daughter is screaming "HOM-BRE!!!" at the computer. Over and over. Apparently Rosetta doesn't recognize her angry voice pronunciation. I tried to help, but I got the "be gone/ away with you, Mom!" snarl face. (How you say it?....muy enfadado?)

My son is watching the Kansas City V. Cleveland game.  I'll let you in on a little secret, Son. The Indians are always gonna lose to the Chiefs. That's just how it is. Also? Being a Cleveland sports fan of any kind is really only good for building character, learning how to deal with disappointment, that sort of thing. If you were hoping for the euphoria that accompanies a team you love actually winning, well....we might need to move back to New England for that.

Carnie high fives

Today I did things like (a) calling the new electric company and (b) donating the toddler-aged toys that I bribed my kids to get rid of by promising I'd take them to the seventh circle of hell also know as the local carnival, and (c) using the very last of the frozen chicken. I also bought (and consumed) some Denali Moose Tracks ice cream. It's all in the name of getting into the spirit of Alaska, folks.

::

It feels like a hundred years ago now, but I ran a half marathon last month at a faster pace than I used to be able to run 800 meters. I reached mile 7 and then pretty much fought the urge to cry and/or heave the rest of the way. I took a solid five minutes to zombie-walk through the finishing area before reuniting myself with the good (and wicked fast) friend who had paced me. She pushed me to finish 13.1 miles at a 7:32 pace, and smiled the whole damn way.  And for the record, it's possible to want to punch and hug someone at the same time. (There are a handful of things I'm going to miss about Ohio, and she's one of them. )

::

I haven't written here for a very long time. Perhaps you noticed? We are a week and days away from moving far, far away. So whenever my praying friends ask what it is I need, I tell them: patience and presence.

I stacked the past few weeks full with road trips and visits with loved ones, a graduation ceremony, a wedding, one-last time play dates and runs, the boy's last soccer game, the girl's last gymnastics practice, so many lasts as we make our way back to a new round of firsts.  I'm overdosing on bittersweet.

::

I read a poem this morning by May Swenson that begins with these lines:

Distance
and a certain light
makes anything artistic—
it doesn't matter what.

I take that to mean a lot of things, but mostly it means that the disaster zone also known as my house might look like a gorgeous sheet of marble if you saw it from an airplane.  Adventure tends to make a mess of things, but in the most alluring ways.

So the next time I feel my resolve snapping under the weight of the moving chaos, I'll just take a step back, wait for a certain light to be cast. And if that doesn't work, perhaps someone has a hot air balloon I can borrow for a few hours.

Let's categorize this catching-up, rambling post as a chance to Just Write with my friend Heather (who knows exactly how it feels to move far, far away, and writes brilliantly about it.)

I will not waste them (Just Write)

I stare at the screen, a map of two countries and 4000 miles, trying to dissect it into drivable days. I open a new file, type "Itinerary." Then back to the screen with the map. The irony isn't lost on me--this getting nowhere in my attempt to plan a cross country trip.

When you first hear the news about a big move, that's when your heart pounds and you feel like you could skip a mile down the street and back. But soon all the talk of grand adventure turns into obsessively hitting refresh on Zillow while the kids log too many episodes of Scooby Doo. (You know it's bad when they protest your turning off the tube by calling you "that meddling mommy.")

::

I typed those sentences weeks ago (or was it days?). I told myself I needed to write through the numbness, write until I felt alive with something other than anxiety. The running helps, and the praying helps; and the not forgetting to say thanks, that helps too. But I still chew through these hours too fast to savor them. The tasks and the details, I gulp them down indelicately, almost angrily. I'm a girl on a mission, googling now at top speed; and at night, I fall asleep before I have a chance to rest.

::

I didn't feel like running this morning. I ran anyway. The same old route, the easy seven.
I didn't feel like eating this morning, either. I ate anyway. The same old bagel with peanut butter.
I can't believe I'm going to admit this, but I don't really want these last few months. I've lived something like them before, back when we were getting ready to move from Maine to Ohio. And these almost-but-not-yet months broke my heart. But I will live them anyway. I refuse to use the fast forward button, to shut my eyes or hold my breath. That's just not okay.

These stressful months leading up to Big Change, they matter as much as the months after, maybe even more. They are moments in my short life, moments in which I can model for my children how to be present, how to be grateful, how to be resilient. They are opportunities to smile and to hug and to cry and to be alive with wonder, to be alive with courage, to be alive with grace.

I will not waste them.

A nearly 4 year old picture--my proof that the days are as precious as they are fleeting

Sugar Snow

The dog whines, circles, taps S.O.S. with her too-long nails against the hardwoods in the hall. She doesn't understand Saturday. (What you mean "sleep in?" I no have dis word in my language.) Neither does my six year old, the one who's been flailing and kicking me since 5 a.m. She claimed her room was too scary to sleep in, but I'm no fool. And neither is she. She knows the odds of getting carried back to her own bed are low when Daddy's still at work. She knows I'm a softy on Saturdays.

I rise, creaking, wincing. The dog, the girl, they spring. Yes, as in spring out of bed. That metaphor? Written just for these two.

I find the wall with my left hand, brace my hip with my right, pad gingerly down the stairs. You'd think I was the one aging in dog years.

I slide the door open to white-sleeved trees, flakes still falling. I want to pinch the sky for dressing the lawn in white on St. Patrick's weekend. Really, Winter, don't be that guy....

::

Sugar Snow: A late snow, falling after the ground has thawed and the crocuses have gotten their hopes up. Called such because the late snow gets the sap going in the maple trees.

Sugar Snow: A boon to the syrup harvest. An excuse to eat more pancakes.

Sugar Snow: A great big pain in the glute for the middle-aged mother who can shake neither the lake-effect blahs nor the bursitis from yesterday's 15 miler.

::

I'm prone to heavy-heartedness, to blink and find I'm buried under a weighty white snow on its way to slush. The melancholy stalks me, waiting for a run-less day when the endorphins aren't there to defend me. I wake up to snow when I was expecting a thaw. I struggle with a strong-willed screamer before my first sip of coffee. I look longingly (yes, I said longingly) at my running shoes. I want nothing more than to run away for an hour or two, to come back sweaty instead of shivering, to return energetic and hungry and smiling and like I accomplished one damn thing today.

::

My son, the eight year old, he gets me. He drew me a picture this afternoon. He said, "It's raining and snowing, and she's dreaming about a sunny day."

Sugar Snow: When even the heaviness and chill, the hope deferred, the three steps back from spring show themselves to have a sweet edge, a sweet ending.

jump, float, sink, repeat

I ride these months leading up to our big move like a see-saw. A jarring trade off between leg-dangling excitement and ass bruising stress and melancholy. Up I go into the optimistic sky of possibility, down I go into the drudgery of cleaning and donating and storage bins.

There are facts to be gathered, decisions to be made, plans to be penciled, papers to sign. One moment I'm floating in a daydream about hiking an Alaskan park. The next I'm measuring the washer and dryer to see if they'll fit in a possible laundry room of a possible house.

And all the while life goes on. As soon as one child recovers from a stomach virus, the other child spikes a raging fever. I make plans to meet at least one more time with this friend and that one. The laundry pile never gets smaller, and save the one with the fever, everyone still wants dinner. Especially the dog. Which reminds me, I need to get her shot records together for when we drive through Canada. That is, if we don't take the ferry. Oh, and passports for the kids. And back I am again to the decisions and reservations to make.

I feel a swell of no-reason tears at least once a day. I never shed them, only feel them tickling the inside corners of my eyes.  I've been itching for this move. It's almost here, and I feel a dozen bright colors about it. So why the daily urge to weep? I guess when you mix too many of even the brightest shades, you can wind up with black. It's all so much, and I find myself swirling into a muddy hue.

There's the weight of facts, reality, chores, drudgery. The heaviness of goodbyes, transplanting, coming ungrounded.  And then there's the buoyancy of possibilities, fresh soil, new paths, the chance to be astonished in my old age. I am taking it all in, the heaviness and the ethereality, refusing to go numb no matter how much the muscles burn, refusing to give up entirely on this urge to fly.
::

“Still, what I want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled---to cast aside the weight of facts and maybe even to float a little above this difficult world.” ~Mary Oliver

(Thank you, Lindsey, for reminding me of this beautiful line of poetry a few days ago.)

Just writing with Heather of the EO. 

Just tell me already {just write}

I'm at that point where I need to know where we're going to move this summer so I can freak out with some specificity.

A few nights ago I dreamed we were moving to San Antonio. I dreamed that my husband and I fought about some minor moving detail (buy or rent? public or private or homeschool? rip my hair out or set it on fire?). I dreamed that I hid in the closet to cry so the kids wouldn't see how upset I was. Of course, it was the walk-in closet from my Maine house and not my current dilapidated, make-one-wrong-move-and-subject-yourself-to-concussion-by-shoe-boxes-and-surprisingly-heavy-sweaters closet. (My current closet is sooo not conducive to hiding.)

The truth is, I'm ready to leave, to move forward. When you come in knowing you have three years and only three years, you set the timer. You keep the roots shallow. When things get hard or annoying or frustrating or lonely, you say to yourself that it won't last forever and then you add some specifics about exactly how long it will last. You do this particularly in the cases when the washer keeps randomly switching to hot water even though you clearly set the dial to cold, or when the tracks in the snow confirm your suspicions that the neighbor's dog is indeed taking a daily dump in your yard.

The other truth is, I'm not ready to leave. A few roots have stretched to depths I never would've knowingly authorized. I'm attached and invested, and I'm going to wince when it's time to pull myself out of this soil. And by wince, I really mean cry like I just walked barefoot for a mile on a pile of upturned legos. My point is that it's going to hurt, and I'm not going to like it. Hence, not being ready to leave.

But ready or not, we are going. And it would be ever so nice to know where, particularly so I can be more targeted and precise in my next panic-induced visit to Google to learn All The Things about the next possible place.

::

Just writing with Heather.