Oh, man. The past couple of months have been a terrible whirlwind of Stuff.
First there was the realization that we are moving. Then there was the trip to Blighty. And now here we are, the day before our move day. I’m not entirely sure how to fill the ensuing space. There was so much going on.
Of course I’m shattered by the idea of leaving New York, but it had to be done: my parents are getting older, and Jim got a really lovely job close enough to them. So we’ll be moving to just down the street from them, and it will be good, if only for the reason that Jim really loves his new gig.
New York is the only place I’ve really ever felt at home. I love everything about the northeast and I will miss it terribly. I feel like I’ve been swaddled in cotton wool, though–with the big trip to England to re-up my ShelterBox training and a bunch of work surrounding the actual move (I’m teaching a webinar on social media tonight), I’ve been largely insulated from the move. So instead of the sharp pangs I had upon each of my previous moves, I’ve been experiencing sort of dull, constant echoey ache that presents itself at the most inopportune of moments.
It’s doubly hard that Jim isn’t here. He’ll be back tomorrow to help with the move, and to co-host the big party we have planned. The fact that he’s so excited makes it a little bit easier, I guess.
Am I ready to leave? No. But I was having a conversation with someone recently, and it occurred to me that you oughtn’t really even attempt to go home again until you’ve crossed a certain threshold in your own life. That is, it’s best for you to attempt a life of your own before you move to within striking distance of your childhood home.
Do I, at least, feel like I’ve done that?