Roots

When it comes to my parents, I always assumed that I would be the one to fly off someday, turning around to wave at them as they stood on our porch, rooted deeply to the home I grew up in. Instead, it is my roots that are becoming more firmly planted (I have now lived in the same apartment for two years, who knew), and it is my parents who are off on an international adventure that will keep them away for more than two Christmases. 

My relationship with each parent is unique. Moments with my dad, while quality, are marked largely by silence as we ride our bikes together, our cadence a constant hum in an otherwise quieter conversation of hearts. For him, he simply needs to know that his family is doing okay. With my mother, silences are rare, and our time is spent on the basement couch, me reverting to a childish position so she can tickle my back while we talk about things we don't often admit to others. Thinking of these memories, dependent so much on physical proximity, I can't help but wonder what truly makes a home, especially when your parents aren't in it anymore. And most importantly, how can I keep all this from changing when they are moving two oceans away?

The answer is, I can't. My other friendships undergo constant face lifts as people's situations change and their needs in the relationship do too. But while I never considered this would happen with my parents as they were meant to stay in the exact same place, to their credit, they are choosing not to. When many people around them are starting to cash in their chips (some alarmingly young), my parents are daring to take a risk with their future, which they still treat as long, exciting, and unknown.

Perhaps the best thing my parents could do for their family was not to stay behind so that our home never changed, but to leave so that we know that it is never too late to tug up on your roots a little to do something you truly believe in.  

Constants

 
I drove home from my parent's house last night, exhausted and satisfied from hours of unrestrained eating and time talking underneath umbrellas in the backyard. As I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw the sun hanging low like a golden peach in the sky. Even with the air still hot and stifling, I kept my windows down all the way home on the highway. As someone who often opts for quieter spaces, some may be surprised that I love to do this when I am alone. The noise of the cars and trucks moving at high speeds alongside me is almost deafening, and the air hits my face like a power hose. Yet I am comforted by the constancy of it—the noise, the heat, the pressured air—and I feel completely present for an hour.

My 20s so far have been one change after another. Graduating from college; finding a spot in the professional world; friends marrying and moving away; new apartments every year; relationships beginning and ending; my own family growing and shrinking all at the same time. Still, as I was driving last night, I thought about all of the things that remain constant despite this ocean of change. For instance, I know when I see my mother that she will always greet me as if she hasn't seen me in years. I know my boss will joke at least once a week about how technology is going to be "big" someday. I know a piece of chocolate always tastes the best after a workout, my dry mouth watering around something sweet on my tongue. I know when I hear certain men speak publicly that I know God exists. I know that mowing the lawn makes me feel American. I know hearing live music makes my insides feel like they are hooked up to an amplifier. I know that I never want firework displays to end when I am watching them with someone I like. I know that nothing makes me feel better than when my own laugh becomes a cackle.

With change moving around me like water, I savor more and more the moments when I find something familiar, like a power hosed drive home, to remind me that some things never do change. Because even in the moving ocean, some things are constant.

Dusting

Somewhere along the way, I started believing that moving on meant erasing all evidence that something had happened. I didn't want anyone, even me, to see my disappointment, so I would go about removing pictures, emails, text messages, kleenexes, and anything else with an associated memory. But even with all of my cleaning, I still find that heartbreak, like any other strong experience, is like a layer of dust. It can settle on all surfaces of life: work, friendships, workouts, books, nights out, food, furniture. Panicked by it, I used to try and sweep this sad dust up with my proverbial swiffer, hoping I could get rid of it for good. But the tricky thing about dust is that it only stays afloat for a few minutes before slowly settling back down onto things.

I am starting to realize that moving on, for me, has as much to do with staying still as it does with moving forward. Instead of running until I am out of air, I stop and try to settle deeper into myself. I honor the experience that I have had; I honor myself for the effort I put into it. And I try and find the balance between looking inside myself and simply letting everything breathe, unquestioned and unexamined. Finally, I remind myself that I am, and am doing, enough.

This time, I will not be scared of the dust collecting in my corners. After all, when I see people acknowledge their fears or inadequacies, I do not see them as weak, I see them as human. And when people keep going despite all of the things they are willing to admit to out loud, to me, they are the picture of brave.

And maybe it isn't even dust that I am seeing at all. Maybe what I am seeing is just the residue of a life being lived.