Leaving

In bed, I open my eyes and see blue sky and pine trees out the bare windows. It is early morning, and I stretch out on my air mattress to yawn. After working five hours in the garden last night (until the sun left to go visit people on the other side of the world), I slept hard. Now the light is back, but even with the sun’s yellow glow to wake me, I feel a sinking feeling weighing down on my chest. It’s my last day here. Soon, I’ll be leaving the wild free land of Colorado to return to the busy city where Ron and I are renting an apartment.

We’ve lived in six different places since our wedding day four years ago. Sometimes we look at each other, perplexed, when we notice all our other friends own a house in the suburbs, work steady jobs, and have popped out a kid or two. They appear very organized. We feel as if we’re bumbling along clueless. Since our wedding day, we’ve both taken major career turns (thus the many moves), lost our child (miscarriage), and can’t seem to settle into a home in the city where we actually live and work. But somewhere along our journeys we decided to purchase a retreat in the mountains.

It’s small.
Humble.
Borderline rustic.

I love its absolute simplicity.

We can only visit for small pockets of time – weeks scattered here and there among vacations and holidays – yet it’s the one place I feel anchored. No matter what other job changes, moves, or challenges the future may bring, we’ll (God-willing) have this place to return to and regroup. As I spend time here tending to the daisies, building a fire in the wood stove, or writing at night by candlelight, I can practically feel the old, unnecessary parts of me shedding away and new areas of growth stirring deep inside.

As I begin the long winding trip down the gravel and dirt road, I offer up a prayer of gratitude. Ron and I will be back here soon enough, but still, it’s hard to leave. A flock of thirty wild turkeys – the ones that usually spend their morning drinking from the rain garden or pecking around the land for insects – run across the driveway in front of the car as if to say good-bye. It’s moulting season, and as they scurry off they leave behind a flurry of feathers.