It’s time to leave this land I so love.
Over the years, my goodbyes have changed. There were the years I tightened my teeth and simply moved on, shutting my heart down to the pain that felt like too much. Then there were the years I learned to open my heart again and I wept, deeply. While arriving on the other side often brought relief– my own home, my own car, my rhythm, my rules–breaking away was never easy.
My train leaves in less than two hours. What does goodbye mean today? Right now? And what makes right now worth sharing?
First, I accept the grief, that comes with the goodbyes. Grief honors the people I love and the bonds that tie us together. There could only be no grief if there were no bond.
Second, there’s grief that comes with acknowledging the end of a chapter. Trips always have themes for me. I will recognize the theme in retrospect, I’m too close to it now. And I acknowledge that this chapter is over. The way my parents held space for me this trip, through this stretch of my trauma-healing journey, was special and sacred. No other time in my life will be this. Because each moment is unique. Traveling awakens this in me–the next time they see me I will be changed. I am always changing.
Third, there’s grief in my empathy for them. I feel their heartbreak as I leave. I always have. It’s never been easy to handle. As I’ve been training to become a constellations facilitator for a year and a half now–I practice letting go of carrying their pain I keep what’s mine. I leave what is yours, with you. A way of honoring the big human beings they are, and continue to grow into.
Fourth, there’s grief in choosing to step out of the nest. For many years, I didn’t feel my parents’ love. I also didn’t feel it was unconditional. I do now. That makes the nest especially sweet. While I know their love accompanies me wherever I go–leaving the safety of their feels like jumping off a cliff–even more than ever before.
Fifth, there’s grief in what awaits me. I’ve decided to move out of the apartment where I’ve lived in Philly for 15 years. It was my cocoon–safe and warm, fit for the me I was 15 years ago, 10 years ago, and five years ago. I must shed it to fly. It must go. And it’s not easy.
Sixth, even with the grief–there are those who await me on the other side. I’m stopping in Milan to see some family and friends. I will be welcomed there, though it’s a city I barely know. Philly has its peculiar warmth and set of relationships, too. I’m on my way. I know new gifts await me. Even with the grief, I’m ready.