This Being Human

I don’t know how to say goodbye to my life here.

I am frozen while we wait for our visa to be finalized.

It feels like we are waiting for the whistle to blow and signal the start of the game. In the meantime, we are busy, busy, busy on the sidelines—gathering documents, translating health records, and deciding whether to bring, keep, or donate more and more items as each new closet is opened.

I wake up at 3 a.m. gasping for breath, having dreamt that I’m running late for a meeting, and I’m not even sure where it takes place. My arms are full of papers I can’t hold onto, and I’m not sure which ones are the most important anyway. And where are my kids? And where AM I? I keep waking up, thinking I am in a previous house I’ve lived in, or at a friend’s sleepover.

I think my tired brain is working overtime to process the grief so that I can fully enjoy the next chapter.

Because for me personally, even when life is really, really good, there is always a little sadness woven into it.

For example, this week my boys had their final day at their once-a-week school. Last year, they ate with me and then went to play with their friends.  This year, they didn’t even sit with me, and probably wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t come. What an honor it is to watch my boys grow more independent from me.

This is a good thing.

And it is also a little sad.

I have always felt the bittersweet nature of life very deeply, and I used to think maybe there was something wrong with me.

Now I feel lucky to have the ability to notice what is slowly slipping away, while I still have time left to cherish it.

I love my life so completely that I have nostalgia for the present moment.

It is never a “woe is me” feeling. It is more like: I love being alive so much, and I am acutely aware that it is fleeting and impermanent, and I am so lucky to be here for it!

So while part of me would appreciate a little less random crying than I experienced this week, another part of me knows this is simply how I experience life.

Lately, it has been difficult to let myself imagine the wonderful things awaiting us in Spain because so much of my mental energy is devoted to grieving what I am so thankful for here.

I am too sad about leaving my preschool job and coworkers to fully embrace the excitement I know I will feel when I begin Spanish classes next fall.

My heart aches as I watch the boys with their friends in our pool, their jokes flowing effortlessly in a language and culture they know by heart.

I am too sad to feel proud of our decision to give them the gift of living in another country and learning another language.

In my more anxious moments, I question my sanity for describing this move as a gift.

Most people do not choose to do something like this.

And I understand why.

Because even when you are running toward something beautiful, you still have to grieve what you are leaving behind. And those moments of grieving might scare you into believing that it isn’t the right decision. But I’m not afraid of my own tears and bouts of sadness, and I know they are temporary guests. I really love this poem by Rumi, called The Guest House.

“This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.”

And perhaps my goodbye isn’t one moment, but a season of gratitude so deep that it spills over into tears.

I am packing lightly, but I am carrying a great deal. 

How lucky I am.