Heart slobber.
We are starting our third month in a new land of mountains and streams, having moved from our home in Illinois to fulfill my dream of 36 years to move to North Carolina. We have no close friends here, no family.
My husband commutes to his old job during this transition before he quits and starts a new one. He’s here with me in the mountains for two weeks and then returns to the cold flatlands of the north for two weeks. This pattern of the past two months will continue for another two or three.
I, meanwhile, sit at home alone with my dogs. Yesterday we hiked in the mountains among dormant rhododendrons and along a singing mountain stream. This morning I lingered in the quiet after an hour-long qi gong practice and found myself yearning for that time when I have friends and am involved in social activities.
And then I thought, wait. This is my life right now. Why yearn for a future that will come in time? Can I be present to this moment and be grateful for it? Yes, I can. This period in my life is a gift, this quiet meditative time alone. A retreat of sorts every two weeks. I appreciate and reap the riches and accept this phase for what it is—a kind of limbo, a further letting go into the unknown.
At the same time, I see no fault in leaning towards a future with hope and anticipation. Joy is present. Gratefulness for the change I live now is present. And so is loneliness and the knowledge that this too shall pass. I appreciate this time. I breathe it in and swim in it.
“You begin the warrior’s journey when you choose one path and stick to it. Then you let it put you through your changes. Without a commitment, the minute you really begin to hurt, you’ll just leave or you’ll look for something else. The question always remains: To what are we really committed? Is it to playing it safe and manipulating our life and the rest of the world so that it will give us security and confirmation? Or is our commitment to exploring deeper and deeper levels of letting go?” -- Pema Chodron Uncomfortable with Uncertainty, teaching #88