Transition

It happens so gradually that it is hard to remain patient. There is no rushing change, it happens at it's own pace. I've been out of work for multiple years now and I profess to "looking for a new job"  because I am too young to retire; too young to "do nothing". But is that what I have been doing?  

I profess to some latent PTSD from my years of over-working as a physician. Years of putting other people before my family, my self care, my very self worth. It is remarkable now (and still daunting) to have a day spread before me with no preset over-booked schedule. It is also remarkable how long I have gone without really examining my goals, just letting the flow take me where it will. I have to admit I love the ability to change courses in an instant. To rummage through my fridge and create something from the many bits of flotsam and leftovers. To walk in the park and hear the bird song and the crickets and cicadas. To look for mushrooms. To pet other people's dogs. 

And yet, lately, I feel a pull towards another change.  One with more purpose and an overarching design. I see my children struggle in their career paths as they enter the part I barely remember now because I was so over-extended. I see them try to attend to their children, but hear the frustration beneath as they try to multi-task as they believe the world requires them to. I try to help them decompress by spending more time with my grandchildren. I still feel the sting of my own son's rebuke years ago when he was at my knee as I worked on computer at the kitchen table on the day's unfinished charting.. "no, Mom, Listen with your eyes!"  So I try to listen with my eyes, and my heart, and my whole body. 

Yesterday my listening eyes found a perfect handprint of my almost three year old granddaughter, Lilah, on a mirror in the bathroom. And I remembered when it occurred. She had been at my side as I washed my hands in the bathroom and wanted "up". She didn't say it but I felt it. I picked her up and she delightedly stood on that counter and promptly put both messy hands on the mirror, then leaned back to examine her work. Only minutes before we had walked on a path in the woods and had been wondering what the birds, and frogs and crickets were saying in their timeless voices. When we spoke of the crickets she answered "I'm here! I'm here!" and told me "That's what they are saying,  Nonna!"

I haven't been able to wash that handprint away. I think it speaks to some higher purpose; knowing that people are here with us. Truly here.