In between.

We are in between things right now – to use the vernacular. We’ve moved out of our home for the last 30 some years and are squatting in an apartment while we wait for our new home to be finished. We should be ready to move in about 6 weeks. We’ve moved in here “sort of”, about enough to comfortably access our “needfuls” without completely emptying all of our boxes. We have to move in 6 weeks, so the less we unpack, the less we have to repack. We make decisions about how badly we want to use something, before we dig it out. Mostly, we adjust and adapt with what we have out already. It’s a tentative life. We don’t have a lawn to mow or gutters to clean (truly I mean gutters to think about cleaning, which is the most I did about them, though thinking about doing them should count for something).  Outside the apartment, the immediate world of domesticity is handled except for washing the car and I wasn’t going do that anyway.

We are on hold. We are at a planned change in our life. Our children are well grown, our mortgage is paid off and we have achieved our financial retirement goal. We will be moving to a planned retirement community, a continuous care community in which we live independently in a home we’ve purchased for as long as we are physically able. We eventually transition into ‘continuous care’ assisted living. It is all very planned and civil, which worries me. I have never had plans go, well … “according to plan”. Nothing has ever turned out the way I’ve envisioned it, ever.

In six weeks or so, we take the next step. Movers will come and haul our worldly goods and our wrinkly bodies to a new home which, as Tennessee Ernie Ford used to say, if the good Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise, we’ll live in for many years. We will have fewer chores and more free time to travel and enjoy the world. Ironically, my health has deteriorated, diminishing the odds of actually traveling. We are children of the children of the depression though, and so made of stalwart stuff that gives us the will to push forward, a stubborn Scot and an obstinate Swede giving the finger to difficulties.

This interim between moves has become a time of meditation. We have time to look back on the many years in the old house: the trees that fell during storms, the fence that wouldn’t stay up and the dogs who graced our lives and saw the fence as an Olympic event for both jumping over and climbing under (though one hound used the top runner board as a balance beam which led to freedom). All the big events and more importantly, all of the small events. We could hear the noise of the crowd on Friday nights when the Rebels scored. We sat on the roof to watch fireworks on the 4^th of July. We sat on the roof to watch the cloud of ash rising from Mt. St. Helens. We sat by the fireplace and watched the snow. It was a good place to be.

Looking forward has its share of excitement and trepidation. We have a house, and we have our things. We have each other. Beyond that I am reluctant to add anything. To make a plan just waves a challenge in tomorrow’s face, though we’ve done that often enough.

We are ready for the next thing. This zen moment is the time just before the hammer hits the chime. The pause before the next pause. The time between things when the sound dies out, but does not stop.

We move on soon enough.

Blessings

Posts The Road