Not all of us were born where we belong.

Maybe I am not there yet. Maybe we never arrive. Maybe it’s all just an endless journey passing through places and time.

The never-ending journey of growing up.

Why did I ever think it would be easy?

And why did I ever think it would be done?

And in that time and space between here and there or maybe somewhere yet to be, there is a pause. It may be an almost imperceptible lingering that lasts no longer that the gap between the inhale and the exhale. Or perhaps it lasts longer, much longer, so long it starts to feel uncomfortable, you can’t help but notice it like awkward silence that you wish to fill or be done with and move on.

It is a state of emptiness. Hollow. You can see right through it, if you know where to look.

I look at my hands and see I am holding nothing but air. Full of the space that is plentiful in between those things we grab onto. Clinging in hopes of finding who and what we are, and where we belong.

When all along, we are that space, that nothing and everything in between, as much as we are solid ground.

Sometimes I find myself… lost. In that space in between. In transition, with feet firmly planted in the wind, and head spinning in the clouds.

Yet my heart remains grounded, no matter where those feet find themselves, reminding me what I’ve been looking for all along.

I need not remain in one place. While I’m with you, I am where I belong. While I’m here, I am home. Where ever here and my heart may find me.

Things change.

I love when it all goes smoothly, effortless, assuring me I’m heading the right way. One door easily opens before you while the one behind gently closes.

That rarely happens for me.

More often than not, there are slamming doors and some strong suction that whips me off my feet and lands me through a door I never even saw before me. Or else this: I find myself stuck in that place in between. In that gray area without black and white lines. In limbo.

Maybe like training horses, I too need time to soak. To process. Where the hell am I and how did I get here? That sort of stuff. Life puts me on pause until I figure these things out.

Guess I’m no rubber ball. You can’t throw me around and expect me to bounce right back with a smile on my face ready for the next round.

Boing! Here I am!

Boing again! Now I’m somewhere else!

Aren’t you happy to be back?

No. I don’t know who or what or where I am.

Give me a moment to catch my breath.

I don’t know about you, but I sure wish transition between things – be it homes, jobs, relationships, stages of our lives, loss or gain, even seasons, time and age, was easy. Instant. Leave the past behind and the future should be fine and dandy. Put the summer shorts in the box in the basement and you’ll be wearing wool for the next six months.

It never works that way, does it? It’s never quite that simple. Edges are blurred and boundaries unclear, and who and what or where we were and where we’re going blend together like red wine spilled over a crisp white linen tablecloth. And there you are; left with an empty glass and big mess to clean up.

Transition is a mysterious state. It’s awkward. Uncomfortable. Uncertain. We notice the past is missing, and may find ourselves mourning, longing for what was. And then more often than we’d like to admit, we fear what is yet to be.

Not knowing is a scary place to be.

Right now I just need to slow down and process. Let it all soak in. At least part of it. There’s a lot.

We did it. We said we’d do it before snowfly, and we did. Got the house closed in, windows and doors and woodstove and all.

And yes, we celebrated. A slow, quiet dance, holding one another for just a moment. And though it was not much, for me it was enough.

And then we packed up and moved on.

Packed up the horses and chickens and dog and tools and hit the road. Three days, 1250 miles, and boom there you are, back where you started, to assess the damage, clean up the pieces and figure out what projects need to be done next after leaving your home and land for four months.

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Slow down!

Look around and see where your feet are beneath you, what land you stand upon. Connect with that here and now. Take your time; give it time.

Let one thing simmer. Put it on the back burner. And pull the other pot to the forefront, lift the lid, give it a stir, and bask in the rich, savory aroma.

I’ll explain another day. Maybe when I figure it out. If I do.

Today I am savoring the silence. The stillness. The calm and comfort and warmth and gentleness of another place. A familiar place.

Riverwind.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

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