So this is supposed to be the entry where I thump my fist on the desk and say "I am going to like it here!" but you and I both know by now that it's still far, far too soon to declare such a thing. Even though I'll very likely do it eventually.
My beloved husband is at work today, his second day, and good LORD did he look handsome this morning. You know? Wow. One of his co-workers invited us on a "get to know the new kids" apple-picking adventure this weekend which I told him to accept before the words had even finished falling from his lips.
Can I tell you a secret though? I'm terrified. What will I wear? Who will I sit next to? What if there are giant spiders out there that make me freak out and cry? What if they think I'm lame?
Ahh, the torturous theater of the inner child. Especially the centuries-old, super shy one I seem to have in me. She's always whispering in my ear: you're not good enough. And yeah, to be fair... she's kinda' right most of the time. But here's the kicker: nobody is.
Nobody is ever "good enough". Ever. And it's big life changes like this that are supposed to make that okay. Moving across country like this is supposed to bring into focus certain things like "what is important" and "who is important" and "a little bit of flexibility won't kill you for chrissakes"...
So: A tree, when being dug up, only knows that her roots are being severed with a spade and that her living space is getting penned in to a degree that she hadn't allowed herself to imagine before. She only knows the violence of the relocation. You know?
A wise woman recently reminded me that a dug-up tree is almost always going someplace better, to be planted in brighter light, with better water, softer soil. A dug-up tree is almost always going to get bigger and stronger.
She was right. And now that this dug-up tree still misses her first spot, this new spot seems to be watering in nicely. It is a good spot. It is well chosen, and carefully chosen for the many attributes I'm so grateful for like the extra space (even though I bemoan CONSTANTLY how tiny it is) and the many windows (even though I'm still childishly sad at how few there really are) and the quiet neighborhood (even though there are sirens racing around town at all hours, endlessly).
So for me, for this little tree-spirit, moving across country was less "here's what is important" than "look you lived through Budapest, you can live through this". And since I'm still surrounded by stuff from home, the homesickness hasn't really kicked in yet. It still feels like I'm on some kind of really amazing, really inconvenient, really opulent vacation.
And here's a little something else I wasn't expecting. Now that I'm in charge of "The Home", and unpacking boxes is item number one on my resume... It would appear that my squishy, unreliable thinkmeat is doing the same thing.
The dreams I'm having, folks, Oh My GAWD the dreams. I'm not even kidding here. Everything in my head seems to have been shaken around and boxed up and moved around just like my physical surroundings and at night I'm left ripping open boxes with useful stuff and sometimes stuff I haven't looked at or touched in YEARS. Stuff I shouldn't be opening, mostly. I'm remembering stuff I thought I'd never have to remember again and it Ba-LOWS! My whole snowglobe brain has been shaken and is now swirling with confusion and disorientation and nobody remembers where the goddamed remote control is or where the corkscrew is or why the memory of slipping on the ice by the old stone library when I was in FIRST GRADE came back vividly enough to give me serious cause to check my elbows for missing skin when I woke up.
I am remembering outfits I wore as a wee-bairn. I'm remembering smells I haven't smelled since long before I lost all my grandparents. I'm remembering giant wooden tables groaning with food and laughter, tables at which I was too small to be permitted access. I'm remembering the icy pain of hearing laughter at my expense, too. I remember sneers. I remember the darkness from inside the locker. I remember the smell from inside the garbage can. I remember the defeat, the hate, the pain, and amidst that I find a new box of memories to open and it's all old hallmark moments and birthday grins and pink frosting and cat fur.
My head, it would appear, is unpacking as well. And I'd like for it to stop, please.
The fun stuff, is fun. Q.E.D. It's nice to get to the good parts of my childhood. But to get there through the bad stuff... there's just still too many bugs in the soil for this little sapling to really want to investigate too much more. You know?
I think what I'm trying to say is that I'm so close to being able to start the process of re-rooting myself in this new location. It is a wonderful location, after all. But my wounds are still fresh, and the roots are still so bare with all this dirt shaken loose. It's time to get some filler soil and cover this crap up quick-like. So that I can get on to the process of getting stronger again. And bigger. And better.