Springtime Transitions

The cherry blossoms are popping, and so is my booty. Springtime is here, as indicated by the sunshine and my allergies. It’s time for changes and rebirth— and speaking of, it is the month of my birth, so all rejoice in this heavenly presence of The Queen!

If you’re in the market for making change, it doesn’t have to be drastic or dramatic to have a positive impact on your life— even though my recent life changes have been slightly drastic and dramatic.  

I’ve had a lot of feelings since I left Seattle a couple weeks ago. My heart got a little tingle the other day when I saw a Seattle-bound flight on my walkaround. The thing I keep reminding myself: this was all my choice. I left under my own accord for the necessity of growth. I hold my friends there in my heart, and keep them close via social networks and the like.  

Your body knows much more than the mind (read: ego)— but the mind has more control. It wants to hold onto familiarity for its own sake. But a flower bud in nature knows exactly what to do. And in a day’s time, it opens up to a beautiful bloom, at its own pace and without much fanfare. Our bodies are open to this intrinsic playbook, too. That’s how change can be: rapid with little notice. And it explodes day by day, supporting the illusion of time; it isn’t as linear as we think. As we train our focus, we observe the peaks and valleys of time, soaring through the immeasurable vast that is experience divided by intention— but I digress.

Since I’ve been home, I’ve spent some time on the farm, a plot of land that has been in my family for several generations. I learned a lot out there: how to drive, hunt, rotate tires, and raise livestock. This might come as a shock to you, since I present my fabulous self as some sort of city folk— and it’s true, because I’ve forgotten a lot about country ways. (Rewind a week ago when I high-centered the four-wheeler in muddy tractor tracks).

I have a lot of ideas and plans for the farm. Other than a few cows, tended to by a family friend, it remains unoccupied. The Shop, where my grandpa fixed most anything and everything, stands in a snapshot exactly as he left it, albeit covered in dust since his earthly departure. Going through some of his things is overwhelming and saddening, because I seek his advice on exactly what the hell to do with all this…stuff. It will take years to get this place in order, what with my job and schedule that take me in and out so often— and how nice would it be to find a cute ranch hand to refresh my memory about all things farm!

Maybe I’ll have a vineyard or have bees or build a yoga retreat center— any or all of these endeavors excite me. And I’m definitely building my dream house here. What terrifies me, though, is the time it will take to commit. On the other side of these grandiose ventures is the harsh reality of success. The good thing is that this place isn’t going anywhere, if I can help it.

Despite the affront that pollen has had on my sinuses, spending time in nature is a huge blessing. I went mushroom hunting; there’s no cell signal anywhere, except two bars worth on a hill— just enough to make a phone call if needed (but don’t call me). As I scoured the hillside for this springtime delicacy, I couldn’t help but notice how loud it was. I expected quiet stillness, but the racket of swaying branches and chirping birds was enough to make me think I was downtown Chicago. That noise, though, is so rejuvenating.

Last night, I fell asleep to a springtime thunderstorm, another noise that I haven’t experienced in quite some time. And this morning, when I awoke, I looked out into the backyard, delighted by the dark, wet bark juxtaposed by the verdant, budding leaves.

This is all to say that it’s working out so far. The commute to Chicago, with the help of benevolent friends, isn’t as bad as I imagined. And being home in Jeff City has yet to sink in— aside from going to yoga and grabbing food, I haven’t ventured out into the public eye. I like it that way, figuring out the answers to the questions in peace and on my own time.

Something so illustrative to this new chapter is buying a car— eventually, I’ll need my own vehicle, as I can’t mooch off my family (their words in jest, not mine) for much longer. As I consider the options of leasing, buying new, buying used— not to mention various opinions of brands and projected reliability— the question becomes “How long do I intend on being here?” That question had historically been answered with, “As soon as I can get the hell out.” But now that I’m back, I’m facing that discomfort head on as the great opportunities abound. In a sense, I will always be here, even if my job takes me elsewhere— the What Ifs of life are nothing more than a distraction to the current moment.

All in all, I escaped so that I could come back— and therein lies an indescribable power, managing my own fears on my own time. Now someone help me build a house and buy a car. 

Soundtrack: Anywhere But Here – Hilary Duff

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