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Somewhere between the Desert and New England.
Sedona has been a beloved for a year and some change. I knew, as I was writing that post, that my time there was winding down. It was never a forever place for me. It was clear this was for a set amount of time, probably shorter than I would choose. Like summer camp. Or college. The ancestors of land were my teachers and caretakers. And taken care of I felt. Deeply held. They were a sacred witness to so much of my grief and growth.
One of my earliest memories is my first day of preschool. Both of my grandma’s and my mom escorted me to school. Everyone dressed up for the occasion. It’s difficult to say if I’ve ever felt more special in my entire life than in that moment. My grandma’s held my hands as I walked in the building. A similar thing happened when I got to Sedona. I experienced my ancestors— innumerable grandmothers— dropping me off with the grandmother’s of the Land. “Take care of our girl.” my people requested. “Like she is our own.” The Landmothers replied.
One afternoon in late summer, I felt as if I had locked eyes with Sedona and we both knew it was time for me to move on. What are we to do when the love hasn't left, and still we know it's time to leave? It was an utterly new concept for me to exit before the house was burning down. Places, relationships, jobs always stayed until it was too late, I had to flee. Fear, scarcity, and codependence are a hell of a combination.
This was much more gentle, if not overt. It was as if someone was turning the volume way down on the energy and general relating with the other-than-human-kin. It kept getting quieter and quieter. The daily hikes turned into weekly hikes. Our favorite Zumba teacher got injured and had to cancel classes indefinitely. I went to the East Coast for the holidays, and on the drive back from the airport, eager to catch my first glimpse at the Red Rocks in over a week—the longest, and only time I’d been away— when I finally saw them, energetically, it was as if their backs were to me. Not in a rude way. Not like I was being abandoned. Just like the end of the school year. We’re complete. We’re done here. We all have other things to tend to now. Shelby and I went for what turned out to be our final hike two weeks ago. We had a friend still in town from Rewild and we all wanted to move a bit. A quick, familiar 40 minute loop. Except this time we got lost. I was utterly disoriented, finding myself staring at an unfamiliar angle of Courthouse Butte. The map didn’t make sense. We had to ask someone for directions back to the parking lot. Shelby and I looked at each other: they’re telling us it’s really time to go.
All of us: myself, Shelby, and her partner Chris, had flirted with the idea of leaving since the moment we landed there. We tried to decide where to go next. This place? That place? A move within the state? How close to the ocean can we get? Medium-size city? Nothing really made sense, and more importantly nothing felt aligned. So we decided we didn’t have to decide. It’s not really so much a move as it is the first in a series of movements. Little bit of time here, little bit of time there. The keys in my bag are to a storage unit. I spent most of 2022 solo and nomadic: 4 states and 10 homes. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t ideal, it was incredibly taxing on my nervous system, and it was massively expansive. Home is not a place, I am home. This time is very different: it is planned, and I’m doing it with my kin.
It’s a tender thing to move, though. It’s when I feel my most animal self: it’s a vulnerable thing to move. To get used to sleeping in a new space. This move in particular is bringing up every other move— and with it so much unprocessed grief. Not unlike every time I would decorate for Christmas with my Grandma’s decorations, or am on the receiving end of the Happy Birthday song.
Have been swirling in the surreal, spiraling portal of transition. Equal parts dialed-in logistics and unknowns, nostalgia and immense gratitude for Now, excitement and angst. Tilting between indulging in the freedoms afforded to me as a party-of-one and feeling the void of being untethered.
A Prayer for Transitions:
by Ashley Waverley
If you want a routine, make it.
If you desire a new place to live, find it.
If you seek deeper connection, create it.
If you need to drop into your body, move it.
If you need a new story, write it.
If you have to say you’re sorry, say it.
If you need a new name, claim it.
If you find love, receive it.
If you desire expansion, dream it.
If you find an unaligned opinion, lose it.
If you are offered nourishment, eat it.
If you find your tongue too sharp, bite it.
If you forget who you are, remember it.
If you find inspiration, do it.
If you find something isn’t working, end it.
If you have to make a transition, start it.