What a difference a month makes. I feel so incredibly grateful and humbled by my new job. All the good things that I had hoped would be true about this new chapter are true, indeed. And as for the scary stuff? It’s not nearly so scary.
I am blessed to be writing again full time about subject matter that really gets my motor running. Plus, after working nearly six years in an office without a single window in a beige sea of cubicles, I am so thankful for the unobstructed view I now have to the outside world. It lends me immeasurable creative inspiration every day. Blessings abound, and I am most grateful.
So now that I’m settled in at work, my husband and I are in the midst of a transition at home. We’re both now working further south, so it only makes sense to say goodbye to our condo in the city (our first home purchase) so we can both enjoy a shorter commute. We’re also getting ready to trade in my husband’s beloved Jeep, which has been in our lives since the very beginning. Literally, since the moment we met.
When it comes to stuff, I’ve always been a purger, happy to dump or donate the old to make room for the new. Sure, certain things are here to stay, like my grandmother’s sieve or the various pieces of furniture handmade by my father-in-law. But the dried corsage from my high school prom? Not so much. (Sorry, Mom.)
But now with all this shuffle and change, I’m finding myself amid some serious blurred lines in the “stuff” department. Not so much the stuff inside our home, but the actual space that has been the scene of so much these past three years – from our Thanksgiving picnic on the floor the week we moved in, to warm sunrises breaking over the ocean, to the heartbreaking passing of our first dog, to the floppy puppy stage of our new dog, to our dear friends’ pregnancy announcement, and our own passionate nights of love and war. I sure will miss this place.
And then there’s the dear old Jeep. My husband and I were set up on a blind date, so while we were making plans over the phone on where to meet, I asked him what kind of car he drove so I would know I had the right guy. (Clearly, this was back when blind dates were truly blind, long before Facebook and preemptive pre-date creeping.)
I walked out of my dorm building, and there he was, my future husband, propped against the door of his black Jeep Wrangler. He was wearing linen pants and a maroon button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had a silver chain around his neck and leather slides on his feet, crossed at the ankle. I was instantly smitten.
The Jeep has traveled three times from Alabama to Key West and back, from Whiteman Air Force Base – a long way from the only home I had ever known – all the way to Palm Beach County. It’s seen music tech advancements, from tape deck to CD player to auxiliary cord to Bluetooth. It’s toted many fishing rods, SCUBA gear and 13 years of Christmas trees. Now here we are, 150,000 miles down the road, and it’s time to grant the old Jeep a much-deserved retirement. Thanks for all the memories.
I’m excited at the thought of a new home and that new-car smell, but it really does feel like the end of an era in some ways. It’s a good time for me to pause and remind myself that the stuff is not the sentiment. In giving the stuff away, I am not giving away the memories.
Nope, those precious treasures are mine to keep for as long as I like, and I look forward to all the new ones yet to be made further on down the road.
swimming toward the shark 