I find myself again at a point of transition. The cycle of change continues -- as it should -- but for the first time I am uncertain of just where I fit in. It's a process, I realize, that will be some time in the determining. I only know that where I have been is no longer "right."
Last fall I entered the realm of great-grandparent, a thrilling event fraught with change. And that's been good. I joined the world of the formally retired this spring, by virtue of getting Social Security, and that's been good. I've also joined a cycle of craftmanship by virtue of my needlework, which I market at conventions and shows on a limited basis.
Yet I feel an emptiness within me that has not yet found a place to settle. I hate the city I am living in, hate it with a passion that grows stronger every day. But most of my family is here now. I have always placed the highest value on family.
I miss my old hometown with equal passion, though much of what I loved is fading, gone, or re-visioned. I am excited by that, though, and love the idea that it is changing, growing, after years of urban decay.
I haven't wanted to write in many many months, settling instead into the role of editor, working with other people's words. My own words are just beginning to come back, and I think they may come back with a vengeance. That's good. Do I want write from here? Probably not. I find little to inspire me here, and inspiration, not rote, is necessary to me.
I have a lot of friends here, in the broader sense of the word. I have very very few people I connect to on any deeper level. They've all moved away, moved on to something else. I sense that coming for me as well.
This is my year of transition. I'm not sure where I will land, but I know that I am not happy where I am. Sorting out the difference is -- difficult.
Perhaps in writing this I'll begin to sort it out and find that elusive place to settle. It sounds so wishy-washy to say this, but "we'll see."
