Enough snow has melted that I can see the flower beds in the back yard of my new home. This is my first spring here and I am curious to see what will be blooming in the weeks and months ahead.
The flower beds at my old house were well-established, and each spring, I anticipated the daffodils popping up, followed by grape hyacinths and red tulips. I loved those rare springs when all three bloomed at the same time—a profusion of color to mark the end of winter. Now I am in a new house in a new “plant hardiness zone,” a bit further north than I am used to. I’m not sure what to expect.
Moving has its own kind of loss and its own grieving process. Like all grieving, it is not necessarily rational and orderly; it can be emotional and chaotic. I can easily feel torn between what was and what is becoming. As I compare what I had before to what I have now, I experience a bit of an emotional tug-of-war—I miss my old life and can even feel a bit guilty when I am having fun in my new life, as if I am being disloyal to the old.
While in transition, it is as though I am living in two places. My old friends and my old life stay with me as I build a new life in my new place. Gradually I get involved in the new place and move away from the old. It takes time, though, and I try not to rush it. It is a process.
At this point in my transition, much of my life is still in Pennsylvania. I talk with friends there fairly often; they keep me company even from this distance. If I did not have them, I fear I would be terribly lonely. But I am not lonely; I have friends. They just don’t live nearby.
I was talking with a friend in Pennsylvania the other day and she asked when I would be back. “I’ll be home in April,” I said, and then corrected myself, “I’ll be there in April.” I live in Michigan now; this is my home.
I am curious to see what will be growing in my flower beds this spring and summer—and also what shape my new life will take.