Seeing Through The Haze

There are times in life when our focus gets so narrowed, the rest of the world slips away. We bring all our attention, energy and emotions to bear on the event, and often, it is over fairly quickly. Studying for final exams comes to mind, or getting ready for a big presentation or performance.

When a loved one is critically ill, like my mother is now, the rest of the world falls away. So many of my waking hours are focused on her that I feel detached from the rest of my life. I know it's a beautiful day outside: I see it and have actually walked outside to get from my car to the hospital. And yet, I find myself not experiencing it. To maintain my sense of self and stay grounded, I have to force through that cocoon-like haze and do some things that bring me back to the natural world. Yesterday, I went for a walk for the first time in my new neighborhood. This morning, when I opened the door to get the paper, I opened it wider and stood there listening to the birds singing their hearts out welcoming the day.

It's true I am taking part in almost no outside activities these days, and I'm not sure how the near future will unfold. As in all things, there is a balance and I will work on finding it. Meditation, yoga, journaling, spending time with friends and connection with nature are some ways I'm holding on to myself and my world.

Moving Reflection

I am sitting in my small den off the kitchen listening to the birds on a sunny morning, two days before we move. Suddenly, I am overcome with missing this home, this room, this place.

My days have been spent packing and planning, coordinating and making sure the process will go as smoothly as possible. It took a long time to sell our house, and it is time to go. Yet, as I sit in the stillness, with the sun streaming in familiar ribbons across the room, I stop to feel the solemnity of the moment. Almost 14 years, the house my girls remember most as their home, a chapter in our lives.

In this room, there is a beautiful fireplace with two different moldings. It reminds me why my husband and I have always liked old homes. However, we are now moving into a newly built house, albeit a "colonial" with high ceilings, wide moldings and other attractive features.

I will also miss the familiarity of the house; it is known and comfortable like a favorite pair of shoes. The neighborhood has beautiful old trees and rock outcroppings, lots of streets of various grades which are perfect for walking. Within a couple of blocks, three good friends of mine are just a spontaneous phone call away. I know I'll continue to see them, but it will not be like it is now.

Except for our three years in London, we have lived in the same general area for 28 years. Whatever I need, I know where to go. I now understand why people return to their old neighborhoods and stores for shoe repairs or fresh fish; these are vendors we've been doing business with for years and it's familiar, like a family that has relied on each other for a long time.

In many respects I am lucky to be moving only eight minutes away, so that I can come back if I choose to do so. However, I have a feeling that once we're in the new house, it will be fun to explore and find new haunts: restaurants, services, walking routes and ways to get from here to there.

So I allow myself the momentary melancholy and know that the missing is what makes the parting so much sweeter and more poignant. It reminds me of what and whom is most important to me, and I feel blessed to have so much.