Until Now

What do you do when you’re faced with one of your “untils” finally arriving?  My son is leaving for college.  Far away.  A major move.  He won’t be close by – not

in the same state, not even the same coast.  He is leaving.  That room will become my office, my writing space.  I will have the privacy I’ve coveted to write anytime I want.  That excuse will be extinguished. 

It’s a great and wonderful thing.  It’s a huge scary change.  What will I do without him, my constant steadfast

support?  I wouldn’t change this move for anything; it’s a monumental achievement.  He’s worked very hard for it.  I’m bursting with pride.  And terror.  What if?  Amongst the teeming swirl of all those “what if’s” is the ‘what if I don’t write’?  What if I don’t use that space and time at all?  What if that really was just another excuse?  There’s no turning around.  Our course is set – it can’t be altered at this point.  The “until” is now.

There will be another first day of school that breaks my heart in confusing, muddled, unfathomable ways.  I'm happy, I'm proud, relieved, vindicated - why am I crying?

There was – is – a very dominant part of my established psyche that doesn’t believe anything, all the mass of pending life planned, in progress, will actually ever occur, come to fruition.  Of course it believes that.  How could it not?  It’s all it knows.  Nothing pending has happened yet.  But this one is.  And the ripple effect from this one will be unending.  It’s happening and then that will be it; done, forever.  We’ve worked to this point, both of us, for twenty-some years and it will come to pass is a cosmic heartbeat.  And it will be done and over.  And I will be alone.  A life check mark irretrievably struck through – “raise son, get him off to college.”  Done. 

I’m not sure how to live life with the biggest piece suddenly gone, just gone.  All the planning, all the anticipation, all the heartbreak along the way led here, to

now.  “Until” finally calling our bluff.  I already wonder, amazed, “where did it go?”  I blinked and turned away for a moment and when I turned back it’s suddenly arrived and then it’s suddenly over.

When life has been spent preparing, what do you do when there are no more preparations to make?  I am indeed running again – I’m running out of time.

I haven’t wanted to write about this.  My normal process is to sit in the early morning dawn and take those precious moments to listen; “where am I this 

week?  What’s my truth right now?” And that’s what I write.  This is definitely where I am right now but it’s too close, too personal.  I have learned along the way though that writing is always about tapping the raw truth; unrefined from the depths, dragging it out into the light and onto the page.  True writing always resonates from a true heart.  It’s not about being clever or technically skilled.  And this is where my heart is right now.  Everything else is a mere reflection, a response to this monumental event.  Everything.  Even my hiccuping heart knows that.

I’m scared to put into words my fear of being alone.  I’ve never been afraid of that my entire life.  I’ve often longed for it.  I had to do significant work to accept not being alone.  But now – now that it’s here again, at this time, this particular time in my life – I’m not ready.  I need more time to plan, more time to prepare, more time to get projects done that I might need help with.  What if I need to move furniture?  Haul rocks around?  What if I have another heart attack and nobody knows?

 
The journey in between defines the moments; defines the running away, the staying still and facing the silence, facing the blank screen.

It’s here, and I’m on the road once more – this time with my son, in his journey, running to join his life.  And as it’s been true and proper for over

twenty years, I am merely the vessel, the foundation from which to safely launch – the transportation.  This is his journey now.  I will just be an image in

the rear view mirror, obscured in the swirl of dust kicked up from his own wheels, for just a scant moment.  The road ahead needs his full attention. 

I’ll be left behind, as it should be.  I’ll be left alone to face once again my own journey, with one less excuse to hide behind.  Whether I’m ready or not.