At the edge of the tunnel-Transition

We made it. Out of the chaos of furniture, boxes, packing items that we didn't even know that we had, and moved into the rented unknown of an Airbnb. For three weeks we basked in the sunlight of calm, order, and minimalist living. Sun kissed cheeks and sandy feet, living like tourists in our own town. We drove the same route to work, rushing to get the kids off to school, but we came back to a vacation home at night.

But, it's hard not to feel displaced when we're in the town that we have thrived in for so long, but now we stand a little left of center. Still here but somehow in a different shape; we're in a holding pattern. I subconsciously drive home from work and park in front of my house, when the condo is on the other side of the island. Crooning my neck to find a parking space on a busy beachfront street, cursing under my breath that I could've just pulled up in front of my house a few weeks earlier. All of this adds up to a cacophony of murky feelings that leave me unsettled at night, like the smile that you muster to a joke that wasn't funny.

The week before our departure we meet with our friends for the last time as California residents, spewing testimonials of our experiences together. I talk with soggy-eyed clients as we recount the years that we have worked together. I hug and re-hug my colleagues as I say, "I'll see you soon, since this isn't goodbye." We force laughs and brush off the picture of what next week will look like. Being mindful of these last moments leaves me exhausted and numb and looking for sanctuary where I can find peace from the traffic of my thoughts. I just want to let go but I can't let go at the same time. And suddenly, all at once...the RV is packed and we drive away as the kite surfers sail in the distance. "Say goodbye Alameda," I whisper to my girls as we drive over the bridge and I begin to cry. Bella asks me, "Mama is that a happy cry or a sad cry?" "It's both," and I kiss my hand and blow it across the bay.