Transition

The seasons in San Diego county blur together. Intellectually, I know it’s winter now because the sun sets before I’m home from work. Christmas just ended and already I’ve noticed buds on the fig tree on the side of my house. The succulent I thought was dead has sprouted new growth. Meanwhile, autumn leaves are finally falling from trees, just in time for spring.

It’s confusing.

Life around here is equally weird. My daughter will be 18 years old this year and as the days slide past, I can feel motherhood as I’ve known it fizzle out. The “kids” aren’t kids at all anymore. Sure, everyone still seems to expect me to wash their clothes and scrub their plates but honestly, I don’t mind. It’s one of the few things I can control around here.

My college friends’ lives have marched along, right on schedule. Their children have gone to college, graduated, married and produced the first grandchild or two. From what I can tell on social media, pretty much everyone in the world takes an annual vacation. As usual, I’m not in step.

But that’s okay. The older I get, the more I know what I want. (Time to read. A nap. Sunsets over water. More books. Clean sheets every Sunday night. A delicious salad. Twinkle lights. More years with my beloved.) Truly, the small things in life delight me.

I’m in a season of transition, a season of purging and sorting and discarding what no longer serves me. Neighbor Bob, the man across the street, taught me to say, “Thank you for your service. Goodbye,” when he helped us cut down our beautiful palm trees which had outgrown their space. I’ve been very busy, then, with my stuff. It takes time to touch everything, to consider it and bid it farewell.

Moving on feels bittersweet but I know that the next season will be beautiful, too.