I’m sitting outside at my in-law’s place — where we’ve decided to camp out as we find a place to live and all the other things that come with moving — and I hear the faint sound of a small airplane over me. I look between the trees and smile as it passes by. I think to myself how an airplane will always be a reminder of what was before; not so much my life before, but rather the energies that went to it all.
The suburbs, so far, have been such a lesson in slowing down. I swear, time moves more slowly here. Even now, as I write outside, I am watching birds flit around at the birdfeeder and in the limbs of trees above. I can hear traffic in the distance, but not when the door is closed and I am inside.
I think back to my early twenties and living in Chicago. Life was so full and busy and sweet. There was always a party or heartbreak or time around the table with roommates. I felt like I had arrived at what life should feel like then. And maybe I did! Perhaps arriving is like a small box of crayons, where a certain color shades in a part of the picture … but not the whole. If I could describe my early twenties color(s), I would have to go with vibrant, exciting orange and yellows, and moody purples and blues.
Now, though, I am a calm grey and rose. I can sweetly reflect when a plane passes overhead or when the year 2012 is brought up because those colors that have filled in the parts of my story already mean so much. With this new beginning, I get to look back and remember what closing out my twenties in Chicago meant, and what beginning my thirties in Indiana will mean.
So far, it’s a crisp morning breeze in the backyard; a coffee sitting on the table before me, and a sleeping baby boy upstairs.