This makes sense in many ways. I just got back from a six week visit to my east coast home with my parents and my sisters and my dad's perfect - as in Navalicious - dog named Lucca. I was not there as long this year as I was the year before when I took a one week drive across the country and rented an old and peaceful farmhouse that was hidden down a long and rocky driveway with only cows as my neighbors most of the time. That visit was for three months.
I had my dog with me.
This makes a huge difference, having Nava by my side. She grounds me. Her strong and solid body and her bright and brilliant spirit and her loyal companionship and deep love. And so being away from my west coast home last year, and apart from my husband for the length of time we were apart, it was easier because I had the constant of my dog. The transition there and the transition home had a consistent piece.
This time, Nava stayed in California and my travels were by plane and - though I went back and forth once in the middle so I would not be away for as long as I was away - this trip unrooted me. And now the arrival back home uproots me, too. But there is more to this than this.
Because this transition of location is actually the physical manifestation of a transition of my self.
I love when this happens. When the outward expression of our movements is this perfect illustration of what is going on inside. But we don't know this at first. The universe has this wonderful sense of humor and creates such symmetry quite often but we don't get to see it right away. Instead we navigate the unfolding of it all one step and one moment and one experience at a time. And then there is that a-ha moment.
I was at a dinner party last night, for a dear and true and most beautiful friend's birthday, and had this lovely conversation about writing with a friend of my friend who is writing a book. A memoir actually. And she said that the book was really writing itself. It reminded me of another writer friend who always said he did not know where his story was going until it came out of him. And that he couldn't wait to write sometimes so that he could find out what was going to happen.
This is what transition is like.
We may not know this consciously, that these physical movements and actions are our acts of writing - our creating the structure for our story to unfold upon. But then, when we see it, it is so good. Of course, we will experience in act and deed those same things that we experience in mind and spirit. It makes me laugh, the balance of it all.
And this morning I saw it. As I was walking my sweet and early to rise puppy through the not quite light of the orange grove I felt restless and uneasy. And so, in each step of my sneakers on the gravel path, I explored each step of my trip forth and then back to my home. And I explored each step if my internal trip, too. And I saw the change of location as it mirrored the change inside of me.
This didn't make me feel any more grounded.
The shifting inside of me is still in motion. And so, though my footing is solid on the dirt and stone of the orange grove - often times the writing comes before the thoughts are clear - my spirit is still moving through layers and has not yet landed in this new place I am heading towards.