One of the things I love/hate most about kids is that they’re blithely unaware of our urgency, but somehow attuned to our stress. In the last few months it’s been a blessing to have two little people to focus on. It’s kept me from thinking too much about what we’re leaving. Potty training a fecally creative son, and wrangling a teething daughter has done the trick.
I was totally fine until about two weeks ago, when I burst into tears going around the bend on a particularly beautiful stretch of road.
I realized how much joy I get from the shapes and colours of the Cape. And how hard it is going to be to say goodbye to the soft fynbos palette and comforting mounds of familiar mountains. Talk about breaking the seal. Since then it’s been a constant train of thought, chuffing on through my waking hours.
How to say goodbye?
Understandably, that preoccupation spills out into the days. It pops up in unexpected moments. My thoughts chime in: Is this the last bottle of All Gold tomato sauce we’ll ever buy? What scenery is there to look at when I’m stuck in traffic in Calgary? He’ll probably be shaving the next time we see him! How will we ever find a community like this again?
Urgh. It’s impossible to share time with friends without the murky dread of certain farewells permeating the occasion.
The giant countdown calendar on our wall doesn’t help much either.
Knowing that humans have migrated since the beginning of time is only a small comfort. It’s mostly a kick in the guts because it leaves me feeling like mine is the weakest character ever. This whole situation has the power to debilitate me as I raise my anchors one at a time.
That’s where the kids come in. Without their dizzy energy and highly saturated emotions to contend with, I’d be day drunk under a table until an hour before we hit the road.
It’s this weird tension between heartache and staying present that colours my days at the moment. It speaks into everything I say.
And that’s all I have to say for now.