Another Address

I erased another address of one of my children today, changed her contact info in my iPhone, and as I wrote in her new street and city, thought about my mother’s tattered address book. Mom didn’t bother to write in pencil, so she wrote our new addresses in ink, in her miniature handwriting, above or on the side of the old ones, every inch of the page covered with details of the new places we lived. My sister and I would marvel and laugh whenever we saw how many times we had moved after we left our parent’s home. Or sometimes cry, remembering the trauma and emotional upheaval that occurred at a certain location.

Moving – to a new city, a new apartment, a new life – represents, to me, the unstoppable changes that occur in this human existence. We change jobs, cars, doctors, favorite foods, significant others, perfumes, beliefs, hair color, friends. We have a favorite author and devour all of her books, then open to someone else’s words and purview of life; we follow a beloved teacher, leader, or band, and then leave them to adore someone new. Like seasons, we pass from one variation of ourselves to another, never leaving the core of who we are, but shedding, growing, and creating our form over and over again.

Change demands courage, demands faith, and a sense that all will be right, even if everything is different. I welcome change — it is a part of my character to love what is new – but many people are petrified to enter the unknown, even though it is inevitable to stand at the edge of a place we have never been.

As this child of mine flew off, I wrote her new address in pencil, and envisioned her excelling in her new place, trusting that this adventure is exactly the change she needs.

“Here is the instruction: Only connect. Wherever you are, right now, pay attention. Forever.” – Sylvia Boorstein

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