In preparation for a move of a lifetime, I’d gone down the list, of people to tell, and last was my neighbor Chuck. And my Facebook friends, but I’m not concerned about them.
Chuck is someone you want on your side. He is on mine. A felt and spoken fondness for the neighborly closeness was shown yesterday in a rendezvous between our houses, in the gravel road that separated ours, next to a pothole we stood eye to eye.
“I’m mad at you,” he told me. “I know,” I said, our sadness and understanding of the weight of the loss lingering in the March cold. Although lime green hydrangea buds marked a change of season, it was still new, and the conversation in chill meant arms held closely to our chests.
I am taking others’ feelings in stride these days, with knowing head nods and understanding others’ loss. And my own. But it isn’t like it was a few months ago when it felt like a freshly sliced thumb with lemon poured on. I no longer want to back out like I did then. As if secretly looking for a portal to jump through to another dimension to save me. I made the decision, and it is finally becoming a well-fitted backpack for overnight camping. No more rubbing with only the necessities. I am ready.
Ready and acceptance that spill from a place of knowing. Free of doubt and second guesses. At this point, right or wrong doesn’t matter.
I am back to my powerful old self, and I like it.
I don’t like how the bridge area under my foot feels like it is eroding. Although I don’t yet need those orthopedic arch supports my Grandmother wore with her unstylish keds, the clog and muck boot coupled with multiple laundry runs to the basement and garage clean ins and outs to the house did me no favors.
At spying the grains of the hourglass spilling to an end, I armed myself with a dish rag and Armorall to tackle the on-loan truck. I’d never scrub and fluff the white beast to the pristine shape I’d been given it. My Dad, the guy to upgrade every three years wouldn’t let it. So even in its journey to Olympic National Park, with muddy, potholed back roads aplenty where globs mashed themselves like cooked potatoes in the chrome footstool tread, I’d thrown away the expectation of maintenance and settled for, close enough. Which meant swiping away the debris with the rag instead of vacuuming it. Not that my mini free shop vac handled any better than a kid’s play toy anyway.
So I settled on good enough, something I’ve been doing a lot as of late.
Like this post…it’ll do.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 