The house is empty. Strangers were in it cleaning out the last of the dreck on our behalf when we drove away yesterday afternoon.
The contents are in storage or heading toward the Port of Oakland.
One car has been sold to the State of California and the other will be be handed over tonight to friends for safekeeping. The key fobs for the health club have been turned in. My key chain is now empty.
We are in a hotel just a little south of Santa Rosa. We moved in here on Tuesday night. Tomorrow we’ll board the airport shuttle and then transfer to another shuttle for our last night in the States. All the doing is now done. We have the gift of a window of time to not do anything. We pace. We toss restlessly in our beds. We hike or go get a massage (personal preferences) and we encounter some small difficulty which becomes an unfortunate target of our anxiety. We had pizza and salad delivered to our room last night. No forks for the salad. So the manager gets called because there is so much that can go wrong right now that any opportunity to defend ourselves against the threatening chaos of the Universe is jumped on. If we can win the fork failure then we can win the whole game. Which is nonsense of course. Chaos happens, always has, always will. Every potential disruption re-awakens our defending lizard brain who cries out “Emergency! Emergency” with the same alarm for missing forks and potentially missing containers. We’re irritated with each other as we pace the room, in between home and home. We hold each other in the middle of the night, seeking our bodily wisdom that all of this will work out.
A pause means there is time to think about this grand leap of faith. To think about what we are leaving and how much we don’t know about where we are going. Thinking about change is hard. Frenzied cleaning is easier.
Still, this pause is a gift. To feel uncomfortable emotions is a gift because we learn (again) that they pass and contemplative quietness fills in the space.
This is the gift of a pause, a moment of zen moving.