I wanted to talk about transition, how it’s exciting and difficult, simultaneously, in the same brea(d)th. But today the writing is coming hard. There are some times when you know that something big is happening for you underneath all of your surfaces and terrors, under your day-to-day-nesses and the funk of old drama that sits on your shoulders. I am getting ready to move out of two places that have held me and my work and those I love, and that doesn’t necessarily even feel like the biggest transition that this self is undergoing — I mean, I have the sense that more is working it way out from under where I’ve hidden it, where I hid it a long time ago.
Still, all transitions, no matter how small, deserve to be honored; and, too, I think about how I often feel sad during times of change, even if the change is of my calling, even if the change is exactly what I wanted. There’s loss in change, a moving away from what has been, a moving into new. There’s a loss of familiar, a release and a relenquishing.
I dreamed my sister had a black dog, like the one we had when we were younger, Katja. I dreamed someone was getting married, a thin blonde white woman, she was in a stunning, cinched dress, material clinging and then cascading, her hair up in long tight ringlets, she was frustrated with how tight they still were, she wanted them to loosen, she bounded up to the window, the mirror, she bounded up and then kept flipping her head over and back up, over and back up, then she would shake her head in the mirror, she wanted the curls to come loose, not look so tight and obvious. All the women around her wanted to help, but she was a whirlwind of energy all alone in the middle. There was more to the dream. Sarah wanted the dog to come sit with her — mom was there, too. We were all staying someplace, like guests at a hotel or a rented house or someplace not our home.
