I am here.
On summer vacation.
Strange place, Transition. I’ve been here before. Many times. It is never the same twice.
I remember one visit, 15 years ago. I had just broken up with the man who had been my college sweetheart, my partner in my first adult relationship. Parting from him, although sad in many ways, was mostly positive. At that time Transition was like removing a blindfold to reveal myself standing upon a bluff above a turquoise ocean, a lush expanse of rolling hills at my back. Salt air and space. Transition then was possibility.
This time around Transition is like a pair of dusty goggles found on the bottom shelf in the back of an antique shop. Thick air and murk. Today Transition feels futile.
I am here.
Two weeks ago I saw my last clients at my studio, The Institute of Moves, Muscles & Eternal Optimism.
In my final two weeks there, I got sick. My body was in excruciating pain. I was fitful every night. I did not sleep.
“Take time off,” my mother implored.
I did not. I was compelled to push onward, to present a strong face. After all, I am in the business of strength and vitality, not frailty and sickness.
My friend Maura has a saying: The body knows.
It is true.
Our bodies know all, even that which our eyes do not want to see, that which our minds cannot comprehend.
I befriend places as much as people. Locations and environments become me. I become them. I care for places; places nourish me. We are beloveds.
Closing my studio has left me grief stricken, a potent reminder of how life and loss are bound. Eventually we say goodbye to absolutely all that we love.
“I don’t want to be sad,” I told my mom. “I want to be energetic and positive.”
“Nobody’s energetic all the time,” she said. “And it’s better to be sad when you’re sad. Otherwise you’ll find yourself sitting in a therapist’s office saying, ‘I’m sad that my studio closed.’ The therapist will say, ‘I’m sorry to hear. When did it close?’ and you’ll say, ‘Ten years ago.’ Yep. It’s better to be sad now, to feel what you feel.”
Then she added, “Besides, sometimes being positive means moving forward even when you’re sad.”
So here I am on summer vacation on a roadtrip through Transition with Sadness riding shotgun.
I drive onward while Sadness scans the radio, landing eventually on a country song where all the dogs are dead and all the love is lost and there is nothing but blazing sun and remorse. The twang hits my ear, echoes the tone of my heart. We turn a corner and I catch a glimpse of the horizon. For a moment contentment washes me like a welcome rain.
I can see the distance.
Something waits for me there.