As of this afternoon, we have an official home in Colorado Springs. The prospect of the move has actually lifted my spirits in ways that I truly did not expect. Having met new people, touched base with a fellow writer or two, and generally had the creative juices churned by the energy surrounding this transition, I feel optimistic for the first times in months.
This day finds all three of my children settling into individual routines away from home: making new friends and re-establishing old connections; unpacking; rearranging; relearning how and when and where to tackle homework assignments; for my son, switching roles from that of the advisee to the all-knowing advisor. Here, on the Home Front, I struggle to--amid tentative anticipation--scrape together the remnants of hope, health, and happiness that somehow survived this New Haven purgatory and carry them with me into this very different life in Colorado. It is as though with the transforming of the seasons--summer into autumn--an equally astonishing alteration of existence came slowly, subtly into being. All about us the world swirls and changes, forcing us to reshape our own thoughts, attitudes, habits, and preconceived notions in order to accommodate those constant changes.
Despite it all, our little Quartet is moving forward. Somehow we have survived that which seemed insurmountable, too horrendous (at times) to be endured; and now it is as if the past traumas never existed, as though the wonder unfolding before us is all there ever was.
A friend of mine asked, "So, do you think you'll be able to write again? Now that you're finally getting away from the craziness?" The truth is, I have no idea. Ideally, I should have been able to sculpt words into distinct, delicately shaped images whether in the midst of insanity or tranquility. Talent should reveal itself despite the intrinsic interference of environmental forces, should it not?
I suppose only time will tell.
Still, one cannot help but--in the midst of it all--ponder the notion of New Beginnings...and how vital to existence they really are.
With the positive changes now taking place in life, I am aware of tiny, electric jolts of vitality which are quite invigorating. Last night, my hands reached for journal and pen, scratching out the sentences before my mind even registered the significance of it all.
So, maybe--just maybe--these changes, this transition (more than anything else) was what I, as a "writer" needed. Perhaps in a new environment surrounded by fresh energy, new faces, different stimuli, it will be possible to knock down this oft-lamented "block" and actually create again.
Am I banking on that?
Let's put it this way:
My son's expression says it all.
I actually posted an entry in my journal today after nearly two months? Dare one be optimistic, ya'll?
The girls have arrived safely at Exeter.
All things considered, even if it is September 10th, it hasn't been too bad of a day...
Happy Birthday to me.
The girls and I have picked up the last of the odds and ends for their return to Exeter on Thursday. Yesterday having nearly ended in a literal nervous breakdown, we are all just glad to have gotten through the morning.
(I think two decades of insanity hovering about me has finally taken its toll, ya'll.)
No great literary offerings have flowed from my fingertips since the last entry: moving has consumed my every waking minute. As for the former best friend, his book is due "out" this month. I hope it will be met with the enthusiasm he both expects and (grammatical helplessness aside) deserves.
He and I are no longer talking, but such is beside the point.
What matters, I suppose, is that a writer will see his work in print. Regardless of anything that may passed between us, I wish him every success.
After all...
One of us should make a mark with this writing thing!
Yesterday, I saw my son onto his train. He is now safely, happily ensconced in Little dorm at Dartmouth College, where he will begin his sophomore year...as well as his first as an Undergraduate Advisor. At present, I find myself seated in the waiting area of the Westfield Mall Sears, watching the fashion show put on by my daughters, preparing myself mentally and psychologically for their departure for Exeter (ironically on my birthday) in a week.
Still do I avoid actual writing--like the bubonic plague, in fact. Disillusionment (?)...perhaps lack of inspiration, and maybe plain fatigue have literally drained the desire from me; nevertheless, I am resolved not to fly into a full-fledged, heart-stopping panic. Photography stands in the interim as my diversion of choice as I prepare to move to Colorado Springs--
(Brief pause. Ondrelique just emerged from the fitting room wearing an electric green jacket!!!!! Shocking.)
I often wonder if I will ever write again. After years of "fighting the good fight," I now find myself thinking maybe I was never meant to do this in the first place...what if I never possessed any talent...what if I have been deluding myself all these years...? Even so, as I rifle through my deepest thoughts and inclinations, there is nothing I would rather do, nothing else that I can envision myself doing with my life.
Time will tell.
In the mean time, I'm just hoping to survive the Mall!
Today brings with it few surprises: still packing, still not writing. The undeniable pressure of urgency allows not a moment's respite; yet unexpectedly, the first stirrings of optimism have arisen. 
Just maybe the kids and I can pull this off after all...?!
