When my man and I left New England four years ago, I swallowed a huge lump in my throat – a lump of fear and relief, joy and dread, wonder and excitement. After ten years of incredible autumns, rejuvenating springs, god-awful winters and soul-satisfying summers, we were moving back to the land that I love – San Francisco Bay area.
And when our friends greeted us on the left coast, I blithely and ridiculously said, “I’ll never live on the East Coast again.”
Thinking back over my stern sure pronouncements of what I’d never do again, I vaguely remember hearing a soft low rumble, like the chuckle of an unseen presence.
At my age, you’d think I’d have learned a universal wisdom:
I laugh at myself, a bit maniacally, as I pack my books and pans, my underwear and lamps, my towels and jewelry. Because amidst all of my clothes that I prepare for the wardrobe box, I don’t own one pair of boots or mittens, heavy overcoat or wool hat.
I’d given them all away.
Then I think back to other times in my naiveté when I’ve said, “I’ll never.”
Hmm, how about in my 20s, when I was quite sure I’d never give up a career to be a mom? Yup, two beautiful children and decades later, I finally see the connection.
How about me at age 13, declaring to my mother that I would NEVER eat curry and ran away from the dinner table in mock stomach distress?
And then, embarrassingly, I think back to how my guy courted me soon after I was single, called me daily, and wondered if we might have a future as a couple.
No, I declared, I’m not ready and I may never be.
Right, not ready until a month later when I moved cross country to live with him.
I hope you’re thinking about your “nevers” that surprisingly, at some point, became the antonym, which is “always.”
Always be ready for new adventures.
Always clear the wondrous path in front of you (available once you cut down your nevers).
And always save your winter boots and earmuffs.