One time, I drove up the coast to Oregon in December. I went alone. I took the 1 all the way, and it was dark and stormy and awful. I was really afraid I’d hit something or someone or go over a cliff.
I checked into the hotel after midnight. I thought of nothing but sleep.
The next morning, I woke up slowly. I pulled back the curtains and everything was this really comforting gray. My room was next to a rocky beach; it literally was a step outside my window. I watched the ocean and the choppy waves and a seagull huddling against the wind, and all of this was under fat storm clouds and there was a light rain everywhere.
I remember the moment so vividly. It comes to mind when I think…peace.
I’m about to give up something perfectly good and safe for something new and I’m wracked with doubt. And it’s not like I can go to Oregon every time.
Well, it feels okay, actually, eventually, after I write it out and think through it. It’s a good thing to move on, right. It’s only the first instinct that has the panic and reflexive jolt. I know I’ll wake up to it tomorrow morning and freak out, then gradually level things out when my forebrain warms up. I only wish it didn’t take so long, this gross transition limbo phase; I can’t handle the suspense.