Transition

When I was little, I used to get “The Feeling.” (No, not THAT feeling, Dirty Minds — that one came later.) I was probably around George’s age when I would occasionally look around and think, “I’m not supposed to be here.” It wasn’t just an out-of-sorts kind of feeling — it was an all-out I’m-living-an-altered-existence-and-these-aren’t-my-people kind of feeling. It always unnerved me. Always made me re-examine who I was and what kind of life I wanted to live.

It happened again yesterday.

I was sitting by the Opryland Hotel pool watching my kids swim. I had a Corona Light in hand (in a can, no less) because the hotel pool was out of wine. And I actually had a little light-hearted argument with the pool bartender that went something like this, “You’re out of wine on the ONE NIGHT I’m staying here?! Can I get it at another restaurant and bring it here?” (After all, there are at least 193 restaurants under this roof.) He was not amused or willing to make concessions.

I begrudgingly took my sweaty Corona in my sweaty hand and hunkered down by the pool with my book. The kids were having a blast. They had the place to themselves, there was an evening pool movie on the schedule, and the sun was blazingly hot.

And then came the music. Blaring country music. BLARING. Loud enough to make my head swim. And it wasn’t just some benign Taylor Swift or the Dixie Chicks, it was hard-care, twang-filled, I-just-lost-my-love-and-wrecked-my-truck country.

There were a few tables of people around me laughing and talking and clinking their aluminum cans together in celebratory conversation. Friends hugged friends. They looked like people I might know, but I didn’t.

In my normal state of mind, I would have introduced myself, would have joined them. But I had “The Feeling,” and it rendered me incapable of any kind of movement. I just sat there and thought, “What the hell have I done?”

Halfway in between my old home and my new home, I felt like I’d tumbled into Diagon Alley. I kept waiting for owls to come hooting through the bar, for rats to run across my toes.

And The Feeling this time? It was loneliness. Pure, unadulterated loneliness. Yes, my beloved husband was anxiously waiting for us a mere five hours away. Yes, my children were all safe and sound and happy. But in all honesty, we were on each other’s nerves.

The last few weeks of this journey have been so wonderful… and so painful at the same time. As much as I’ve loved seeing my wonderful family and friends and saying proper goodbyes, it’s also been a bit like ripping a Band-Aid off… slooooooowly.

And now.

Now we’re in the In Between. Today, when all my kids wake from their less-than-stellar night of sleep, we’ll make the final push and unload the U-Haul.

And then we’ll have a new home. A new way of life. We’ll make new friends. We’ll miss our old friends. We’ll laugh and we’ll cry. I’ll probably cry more than most. It hits me out of nowhere, the crying. One minute I’ll be fine, and the next minute, I’ve lost it.

But life continues, right? And we’ll make it good. We always do. We’ll get new license plates and drivers’ licenses. We’ll tour the kids’ schools and buy their uniforms. We’ll figure out where the post office is and where our favorite restaurants are. We’ll get library cards and find walking trails and re-arrange our furniture.

Today, we say hello to our new home.

Advertisements

About Katrina Anne Willis

Author, friend, lover, dreamer, drinker of red wine.
This entry was posted in Big Thinks, Help From My Friends, Man Of My Dreams, My Kids, We Are Family and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Transition

  1. I wonder if you know how great a gift you’re giving by sharing your journey with us. It’s not just that you’re sharing but it’s the way you’re doing it… honestly, openly and so very, very poignantly. You have this uncanny knack of capturing the perpetual rainbow of emotions embedded in every situation. I love you, your great big, mushy heart and your way with the written word. Thank you.

    Oh, and lucky for you, your new home IS NOT a hillbilly hotel in Tennessee. Get back on the road quickly before they run out of coffee. Who the hell COMPLETELY runs out of wine? Yikes.

  2. I could have written this exact post when we first moved from our hometown to ATL in ’05. I remember 6 months after our move was when I stopped crying. It’s a hard transition ~ there’s no doubt. For us as wives/moms, for our husbands and for our children. My only regret is that in that transition, I didn’t even allow myself to open up to the good that could come in it. I focused too much on the “wanting to be home”. I know you and your family will make this a wonderful transition and I can’t wait to follow all of your new adventures as you discover all your new “favorites”. {Hugs}

  3. Angela Carr says:

    I feel so sorry for you that you have to go to the BMV. Everything else will be great.

  4. patsy see says:

    You’ve reached the state of liminality (see my blog post on the subject). It’s frightening being betwixt and between, being in the place that isn’t a place–it’s between places. It’s scary, hairy, and where the most growth happens–complete with growing pains.

    Hang in there, friend. The best is yet to come.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s