Earlier, we sat lakeside. She watched seagulls while I watched the water. I think it's starting to sink in. Life is not what I thought it would be ...
6 months ago.
12 months ago.
2 years ago.
7 years ago.
Over the past few days, I've found myself wandering park paths as conversations slip silently in and out of our breaths. Madeleine skips ahead, jumps ahead, sprints ahead and begs to climb trees. This group, we are new. This is new. I feel a slight panic to push away the new, but I don't. I panic inside, but slow my pace outside. It's ok for things to be new. Just out of the packaging. Fragile.
I laid on the plaid blanket staring at the sky while a guitar and mandolin sang, voices hummed, and I was at ease. I try to tell them that I'm not "indecisive" but rather I'm "laid back", which is partially true. Because maybe right then I was indecisive. I'm not so sure I want to lean back up, I wanted to say. Maybe I didn't want to break the steady hum of fingers against strings, everything wrapped up in notes and music.
I'm not one to rush it, but it's there just the same. We are breaking in the new, and I'm feeling less like a stranger among friends. No in fact, it all feels... familiar.
Tonight, we watch a fox. He runs along the treeline and jumps in and out of the woods. Not unlike our conversation,
They have asked me some good questions, and we've skimmed across familiar stories. I rub my tattoo when I'm nervous, like it's some good luck charm, when really I think I'm subconsciously acknowledging everything behind this bird on my arm. The mark from when I let go. The flight in the dark that I was terrified to take. The hope I had then, that somewhere there is dry ground.
Today, I submitted an application for a new home here. A place for us to hang pictures. A place to teach the ABCs and have late-night conversations. A place for Christmas trees and quiet, coffee mornings.
And it's happening. The new... just. like. that.