Turbulence

Life is turbulent.
                                           
From the first crushing instant of our birth when we’re squeezed squalling from the warm liquid cocoon of the womb into the glaring clamor of oneness, we are struggling to adapt.

Each of us chooses to accept solace, medicine, love and/or friendship; embrace wisdom, welcome new, tweak technique to fit our needs, and adapt accordingly. Or not. Change happens regardless.

Remember when your first baby tooth wiggled under the pressure of your tongue? Or you completed your first wobbly solo on a two-wheeler? What about that training bra, first kiss—and broken heart? You changed. Adapted. Traded white t-shirts for under wires and plastic Scooby-Doo razors for the real thing. Kindergarten to graduation; pig-tails to page-boy; Sippy-cup to wine glass; you changed. And adapted; often loving what Change brought you—driver’s license, High School Diploma, Victoria’s Secret, admiring looks, independence, your own bank account, new love, old money—freedom, and as you adjusted to eye hooks and inflated gas prices, so did those around you. Some better than others.  

Limbo and I are not good buddies. And I don’t get along well with Indecision, either. Too often when they’re around, so is their ugly cousin, Turbulence. And my perfectly ordered life hangs over a gaping chasm called Unknown.

Hubby accepted a promotion. It requires us to move 400 miles to a new city. For six months he’s split his time between here and there. When our house sells we’ll all go there. Away from family. To other family. Away from friends. To other friends. Away from home and lifestyle we know and love, to one hidden the shadows of Expectation and Intent, the path there lit only by Faith. Our only guarantee is our lifestyle will change; and our love for family and friends will not. Here or there, there or here; love and true friendship remains.

When you’re 40,000 feet up, the landing strip still a long way out and the ride rocky knocking the oxygen mask into your face, you can close your eyes and scream in terror–or you can adapt. Put on the mask, tighten your seatbelt, hold hands with those closest to you, and remember to breathe.

And pray.