Change Happens Anyway

Due to the unwanted divorce, sometime around the end of the year I will be moving from the home where I've lived for decades into a condominium, much smaller than this.   This house, on the other hand, has an outbuilding, an attic, a garage, all full of items.  As a dear friend pointed out to me, "You only have a few months; you need to start getting rid of things."

I learned long ago that it's just "stuff."  God can replace it if I need it down the road.  Harder than divesting myself of the stuff is divesting myself of the place itself.  I invested myself in this home, raised my kids here, planted trees and shrubs and flowers and herbs, decorated, remodeled, planned, dreamed.  Dreamed of having grandchildren delight in the big yard and the chickens and cats, my over-the-top holiday decorations, and the cakes and cookies I would love to make with them, but that particular dream won't happen here for me.

So now I am realizing that this is the last spring in this home, and I'm starting to say goodbye to it with each season.  The sweetness of the pink jasmine bloom came and went, but is now  replaced by the night blooming jasmine going full tilt, scenting the entire neighborhood in one huge exaltation of perfume.  The gardenias and roses also delight.

Bittersweet, this recognition of loss.  But I trust God for my tomorrows, for new things that He can only do if I let go of the old things.  I'm ready, or at least, I'm getting ready.

I've become accustomed to being alone a good deal of the time: unwanted divorce, kids grown and off living lives of their own.  I've heard all the arguments about the wonderful freedoms one gains with being single, but I haven't found those freedoms to be worth the losses, and one loss I noticed most keenly in a very simple fashion last night.

I was visiting dear friends and their extended family while they were in town for a brief visit.  Looking forward to seeing their new baby for the first time, it was a special evening.  While we waited for the baby to wake up, we ate, talked, laughed together. The evening was sweltering, so the young mother was reaching behind, braiding her hair to get it off her neck, and I asked her to let me do it.  I took her hair in my hands, soft and lovely and fine in texture, and without a comb or brush, I wove it into a very imperfect French braid.  I had no idea, before I started, of all the memories that would well up inside me of similarly doing this for my own daughters, and  they made me aware how much I missed doing such simple services that involved the human touch.

Soon I was given the chance to hold the baby after he woke up.  Utterly charming, he smiled and reached out to be held and to touch everyone.   When I cuddled him, I realized, once again, how much I miss such simple things that I once took for granted on a daily basis for years.  No grandchildren of my own yet to fill this gap.

A friend spoke to me recently of the idea of "skin hunger," the need for human touch.  It is a real thing, a real ache, and I'm sure a sore place that many people aren't even quite aware exists in them, or have any idea how to fix.  Some try by reaching out sexually to strangers or people they barely know, but that only increases the emptiness if there is no  real love behind the expression.   Last night, touching and being touched by people I love, was sweet.  If you have it regularly, cherish it.