I came home from the airport to discover a for-sale sign in the neighbors' yard. They moved in when their first-born and Ezra were both infants and since then we've spent countless summer afternoons on the sidewalk in front of our houses watching them crawl, then toddle, then bike back and forth. They have a million good reasons to move and I understand them all. But I still feel short of breath thinking of them going.
This week Ezra and I will walk into the school where he will start Kindergarten for our first family meet-and-greet. Will and I agonized over whether to move him from the school he's attended since he was 8 months old but determined that he is ready for the challenge of a new environment. I get weak in the knees when I think of school supplies and new sneakers and the rhythm of the school year.
Whispers in the halls at the office, growing in volume over weeks to a deafening white noise that underlies everything else, about mergers and acqusitions. We were a smallish business when I started here but no more. If we have fattened into the kind of tasty morsel that looks irresistible to a deep-pocketed corporate investor, that's a win I suppose, but not without attendant anxiety.
Suddenly it seems currents of change swirl around me, and I wonder if I can park myself in an eddy and wait it out. It's strange, because for some time I've felt the tension of a powerful surge growing up behind the dam of my life's predictability. Feeling it would break and unleash some kind of furious shift in the world as I know it. Now I suffocate in the unknowing.
I am deeply unsettled. I hone to a razor's edge my hardest questions about whether I've made the right choices and hold them to the light. It's strange that even these predictable things - neighbors move, children grow, businesses do business - trigger shifts that feel seismic. My wish: to befriend the unknowing, to call in synchronicity, to breathe.