Preparations
We feel our odyssey nearing as we live out the “lasts” of this season of our lives - the last start to a school year, the last rendezvous with Midwestern trees in the midst of their own transformation, our last pumpkin carving party. Our long anticipated departure is a mere ten months away.
Not unlike most families in our American culture, we are BUSY. In my dictionary, “busy” is a parasitic 4-letter word. It perpetuates itself by nudging us to say yes to that extra work task, school committee, house project, or afterschool sport, but ultimately robs us of the time needed to let our souls catch up. Being busy means less solitude, creativity, board games, and moments spent deeply listening to one another’s heart song.
With deliberate commitment (and persistent failure), we resist the parasite by creating time to sip on this sweet nectar of life. With our RTW trip just a stone’s throw into the future, the nectar has taken on a new flavor.
Preparation.
Our belongings have become heavy weights at a time when our souls are gearing up for lift off, so we spend free time purging in lieu of collecting. As we shed the layers of our material possessions, I ponder John O’Donohue’s words:
“Most of us are moving through such an undergrowth of excess that we cannot sense the shape of ourselves anymore.”
I chew on this truth and know it extends beyond the hamster cage (RIP Jack), salt lamp, and unbearable stilettos littering my floor. I toss some invisible but hefty additions onto the donation pile and watch it swell into a raging bonfire. I throw in worth as defined by the number of check marks on the endless to-do list and success as attributed to where we stand on the proverbial ladder. While I’m at it, I add parental accolades as acquired by the quantity of hours we spend commuting our kids to and from allll.the.things.
I gaze at the behemoth of surrender in front of me. This one’s gonna to take some time to burn. I wipe my cheek and grant myself an extra slow breath. As I walk down the stairs I have a sudden craving for a s’more. I trust the coals will be ready soon.
On the dining room table we replace playdough with kneading and molding the infinite algorithms of itineraries and low-cost flights in effort to minimize both the drain on our fixed budget and the dreaded purgatory of drawn-out layovers and jet lag. It’s exhilarating.
We prepare for our sabbaticals by passing batons to colleagues and stepping back from, well… all of our commitments. Yet Eric eagerly raises his hand for opportunistic moonlighting shifts, each one now named for its future contribution to our adventure: the “extra day sailing the Seychelles” shift, the “hot air balloon ride” shift, and my favorite, the “mommy’s coveted Moroccan rug” shift. Still not sure how a dining room rug is going to fit on my back or even what floor it will eventually adorn, but the allure of artistry and color is too enticing for rationality.
And then there’s the gold dust: our community. There’s no playbook or blog offering instructions on how to prepare to leave your loved ones. Believe me, I’ve looked.
We are choosing to purge the tchotchkes and superfluous sweaters. We are choosing to reevaluate our societal agreements with worth, success, and what it means to be a good parent. We are choosing to follow a massive dream that looks nothing like the American one we learned about in school. But we are also choosing to leave our village.
I land on this: to prepare to say goodbye to my beautiful community, I lean more into it. I savor every drop of this golden nectar. With each adventure-filled day we spend with close friends, each bread we break over a warm meal with family, each yoga session or leisurely amble I share with a dear companion, my heart swells in gratitude for I know we will go months or years without such sacred moments. I choose to trust these special relationships will remain synapsed and our memories will serve as dogears until we return and pick up where we left off.
I wipe my cheek again and grant myself another one of those delicious deep breaths. John O’Donohue’s wisdom reappears… “the shape of ourselves”.
It occurs to me that the many contours of my own shape have been formed by these sacred connections. It is within this very village that I have found my ground, and from which I’m completing the finishing touches on my wings.
