I’d guess we are about 30,000 feet above the ground now. I’m here, in my pleather seat, plucking away on the laptop keys—just as I would be sitting at my dining room table at home. The fact that I was catapulted into the sky, enclosed in a metal object with wings is totally lost on me.
I’m not sure why I’m writing, actually. It used to be cathartic for me—a release of sorts. I used to find solace in the words, the familiar pecks of the keyboard, the glow of the computer screen after the house was quiet.
It has become something else though: foreign.
As much as I hate to admit it, I just don’t have the drive to write anymore. Which is honestly odd because I have sentences & paragraphs, stories to be told swirling in my head all day. But at the end of the day, when the children are nestled & the floors are wiped (or not, lets be honest) & the dinner is fixed & the lunches are packed, most of the time I feel like I don’t have much more to give—to God, to my husband, to my home, to myself.
It’s what this is, you know—the giving of myself. But it is also for myself—something I oft forget in the bustle of the day. Encapsulated in the drive to get things done is also a desperate echo to slow down. And, as I’ve keenly noticed after packing up our millions of belongings into two mobile storage containers, the drive to have more on a daily basis (I look at Pinterest too, you guys), oddly results in the desire to own less.
This crux—the junction in the road where either something has to change or something else will give—its where I’m at.
We moved—did you know that? We packed up our stuff & drove 130 miles south to Wine Country (in the desert). We are not completely settled (those two mobile storage containers still hold 95% of our belongings), but we are working on it. Housing is more expensive, preschools are more expensive. They say the school districts are better. My pessimism tells me that better schools doesn’t mean the kids are better or brighter or more Spiritually successful. That’s home-grown, I think. And plus, the sunsets are prettier here.
Honestly, I was a bit embarrassed about how much stuff we discovered we had when we moved. Old houses are awesome, except when the full unfinished basement acts as a storage-dumping ground. I could pretend we were put-together upstairs; but it always felt like an episode of Hoarders was fixin’ to be filmed in our basement. Somehow, the pleasure in buying kept overriding the logic that we have enough—in our home, in each other, in our faith. Funny how that happens. Its like Black Friday every day at the Dollar Tree or Target or Goodwill—wanting more & buying more & getting the deals & saving money (but not really because you are still buying)—shortly after expressing sentimental thanks for what you already have. I’m guilty, too.
I noticed an odd pattern, actually; probably akin to dropping spinning plates. Or maybe better: If you give a mouse a cookie. I would let dust bunnies accumulate & intentionally ignore the toys on the floor. It birthed a disappointment with our space, so I would feel the need to leave the house. Leaving the house took me to the coffee shop (I had coffee at home), the grocery store (we had a full fridge), a thrift store (what could I possibly need?), or the Dollar Spot (it’s only a dollar! Right!? …right?!!!????). Then, by some stupid miracle or severe lack of willpower, I would come home with another bag of stuff—snacks or pastries or stacking bins for which I had no purpose. …and having snacks around meant that I would eat them. Following, I would feel bad about eating them, then lazy…& I would let the dust bunnies accumulate & intentionally ignore the toys on the floor.
…Something has to change or something else will give.
And all this rambling finally gets me to January 1. I’ve never been one for “New Years Resolutions”. I think they are corny, actually. I mean, really, every day is a new day. But this year, with all the changes in our lives, I’m feeling a bit sentimental about 2016. It just dawned on me that had we continued our pattern of babies, I would be bursting with pregnancy right now. And for as much as I’m loving having my body back from growing & feeding those babes, I’m a little torn about what is next for us. This move was a big decision. And for the first time in years, there are no major life changes planned. Medical education is over (except for yearly CME, but that’s a treat). Jon is done with higher education. New jobs are settling. No new family members on the immediate horizon.
Maybe this time, “just hanging in the balance”, is purposefully placed right here. Right about the time that something has to change or something else will give we are handed the golden opportunity to make that change. To re-evaulate, re-locate, re-think decisions for our family & our daily lives. And maybe most of all, in a way, to re-define ourselves. Not to abandon who we were before (in lots of ways I liked that version of us), but to recalculate the trajectory we are on, check our proverbial parachutes, & take the faith-based jump into the unknown & the uncomfortable free fall that awaits.
Actually, come to think of it, parachutes & free-falling probably aren’t the best analogies to use when I’m stuck inside a metal tube flying at 30,000 feet.
New Year, here we come.