the Soft Places

Transitions are not quick things.

A decision is made, put into effect, and it can be weeks and months before the new paradigm begins to emerge. From the epicenter ripples are cast in all directions, washing over and altering the state of everything in their wake; established patterns, emotional connections, daily routines. Some are destroyed utterly and replaced. Others are stained with a patina imperceptible to anyone else.

Nothing’s the same anymore. And that’s okay.

My new life is beginning to settle into place. The walls of my home are decorated, sometimes with pictures I haven’t seen in years. There are enough blank walls left over for me to finally frame up some of the shots that were taken of my life when photos were more rarely taken and even more rarely shared. Reminders of who I used to be are popping up all over, and I’m relieved for my old habit of being too sentimental to throw things away.

I’m finally dedicating myself to learning to teach stage combat. There has for years existed an opportunity to assist a class which I’ve squandered all this time, and now I’m showing up twice a week to help two groups of people develop their skills. I’m one of a dozen, sometimes outnumbering the students, but I still have plenty of opportunity to practice. To teach a thing is to know a thing, and I look forward to constantly improving my own understanding of the discipline.

I seem to be losing weight despite making no special effort to do so. As my depression lessens and my anxiety abates, I can feel my body responding. I suppose I’m also being more mindful about what I bring home from the store, though I’m still not immune to snacking on pinches of shredded cheese straight from the bag.

I’m doing more reading and less playing inconsequential games on my phone. I’m socializing, going out to meet people and sometimes even having them over. I’m reinvesting time in the kitchen, digging out old recipes to practice and alter to perfection. I love cooking, but I’ve long since let the skill degrade, and that rediscovery makes me feel more like who I am when I’m happy.

The most important touchstone for me is re-reading Sandman. The first time I read that story I was 22, failing out of college, and ending my engagement to my first fiancé. For nearly fifteen years I would read the series annually. After that I would draw it off the shelf only when some major event happened in my life. I picked up the first book in December when I was still making my last big decision and cried all the way through it. Never did that before. This morning I started on the 7^th, and every time I close another volume, I understand myself a little better.

As children we have driven into us the lesson that we can become whatever we want. It is so ubiquitous that we don’t even hear it or absorb it anymore, and the lesson is often lost. Gaiman’s words have taught me, over and over again, the most important lesson I ever learned as an adult: you can stop being anything.

What I did was painful, but necessary. I’ll go to my grave without ever being certain that it was the only way, or if it was the best of all possible choices for everyone. I’m sure I haven’t lost my last night of sleep over it. The only road left to me is to make the best life I can from here forward. Do right by others, be honest and communicative with my heart’s desires, and remember to hydrate.

I suppose that’s true for all of us.