A Weird Withdrawal

I feel so weird sometimes.

As I drove out of town yesterday around noon, realizing that it may be three or four years before I see Clarksville again, I stopped by Gate 4 and took a picture of the main entrance of Ft. Campbell. I realized that in the 7 years I had lived in Clarksville, I had not ever taken a picture of the entrance before, and for some reason I needed to have this particular picture now.

Weird, huh?

Also weird: Once I got to my in-laws last night, I completely unpacked every one of the six bags of luggage I brought with me and then completely repacked them.

Maybe I'm feeling a little restless. Maybe I'm just trying to concentrate on the moment, at the moment. All the same, being unsettled makes me feel like I'm supposed to be doing something that I'm not doing, or maybe I forgot to do something I should have done.

Weird, huh?

Tearproof Mascara

I've never been very good at saying goodbye.

On the phone, I often feel like goodbye is something you're supposed to ease into before actually implementing. In person, I feel like I should always precede a goodbye with the plan for when I will next see the person to whom I'm saying goodbye.

I guess it's not a word for which I'm comfortable saying, but I've been saying it a lot lately. There have been goodbyes to my friends still stationed here, goodbyes to my friends I've made through grad school, and goodbyes to my friends I've made through my sons. When moving, goodbye is something you can't afford not to say.

Therefore, during the course of the last week, I have worn waterproof mascara, fully prepared for the onslaught of emotion I would have during each time I said goodbye. However, because I'm not comfortable saying the word, I have been distancing myself from the actual moment when I say the word to each of my friends, and the tears have not come. I felt a little robotic each time I said goodbye, saying the words and phrases that I felt were expected of me.

It occurred to me that goodbye is not just a word. It's a loaded word, filled with memories, emotion, and attachment, and I have felt entirely heartless that during the course of the last week I haven't cried once--that is, until today.

It hit me. I knew that it would, and it did, and thank goodness it happened at home where I could get a grip on myself and clean myself up afterward. I wept for the friends that I am leaving behind. I wept for the uncertainty that I may not see some of them ever again. I wept for the adventures and journeys I will be making henceforth without them.

And, in weeping, I found solace. Solace that I am not immune to the love of others. Solace that I am not immune to loving others. The tears felt good, and I now feel human again. My world seems less clinical than alive with being a woman and being human. Thank God for that.

So, if you ever wondered if it really works...it does. That is, the waterproof mascara. It's completely tearproof--which is exactly what a girl like me needs to feel strong and human all in the same breath.

Are we moving...yet?

Sie kommen nicht, I kept thinking as I stood at the bus stop waiting for Keats to arrive for the last time from his school in Tennessee.

Sie kommen nicht, sie kommen nicht! Warum?

Yes, I know I was thinking in simple present tense and what I needed was past tense, but I don't know how to think in German past tense yet. What I was trying to think was, "They didn't come." They, as in, the packers.

For the last week, my expectations for today were tantamount to a space shuttle launch at The Kennedy Space Center, and apparently they were just as effective.

Hence, our packing has been delayed two days to another figurative circle on my calendar.

Let the countdown begin...again!

For Rent

A house is but bricks, wood, and mortar. Inanimate, unemotional, and careless things personified by our own vivid perceptions of warmth, security, and comfort. Of all things that I am attached to in Tennessee, the house that I am leaving behind ranks among the hardest from which to drive away. I have lived here for seven years, and this house is the only home my sons, Keats and Kye, have ever known.

During years one, three, and five, this house became a home for me through three year-long deployments. During year four, my husband and I undertook the most difficult kitchen renovation I have ever participated in completing. This same year, we got busy with our gardens, and today they are a pleasure to amble around and admire.

During year two, Keats took a pink highlighter to every stick of brand new furniture in our living room. His encore took place two years later when he buried his arms up to his elbows in a paint can full of blue wonder and proceeded to finger paint on the wall, carpet, and dresser--all within the space of a neglectful, two-minute-long conversation.

During year seven, I hosted my first crab boil with two of my dearest friends in attendance. We ate so much crab my fingertips pruned. During year five, I started my master's degree, and in year seven I completed it.

In year six, Keats started kindergarten.

There is more--a lot more. Memories upon memories, like brick on brick, laid to form the mental mortar of attachment and endearment. But, I have not the time nor inclination to recall every memory at this time. I want only the one memory that sends us hither. The one memory that requires me to stir my adventurous bones and prod my quotidian sluggishness.

The memory: In year seven, our family was notified that my soldier husband would PCS to Germany with his family.

Hence, I say goodbye to this house, this house which was more of a home than I ever could have dreamed it would be when first I came to Tennessee. This home, our home, will be dearly missed and beloved for the human perceptions of good living, familial growth, and steady comfort that I have known since I have lived here.

A blessing to the dwellers who come after us: May your lives in our home be as pleasant as our home has been to our lives!