I sat at my dining room table for several hours this evening. I should still be there, but my fingers are asking me for some exercise, as if five hours of lecture note pecking wasn't actually exercise.
As I sat there, reading page after page on cultural change, my life began to change with a series of minor interruptions. A phone call from my sister reminded me how this newly created distance disables me from helping her with the many things on her plate. A series of text messages from a beloved former coworker that reminded me that my church home is no longer my weekly resting place (or my daily work mill). Unanswered phone calls to friends leading to trailing voice messages about nothing in particular made me wonder why I'd called in the first place.
I sat at my table and the temptation to cry set in on my lower lids.
My heart is filled with the joy of new friendship and beginnings and even a new view of bike riding. But somehow it is simultaneously heartbroken that I won't get a hug from my dearest friends tomorrow night and I won't cook a meal with my sister this weekend. It seems the vastness of this opportunity to learn and grow (and read my brains out) is juxtaposed with an deeply ambiguous loss. It is a loss not rooted in death, but in the uprooting of life and the withering of many once-vitalizing roots.
The temptation to cry, to mourn, to acknowledge my sorrow was quickly set aside. Not only did I remind myself that I still had many pages to go, but I remembered the root that really matters has refused upheaval more times than I can count. Though I've lost many roots, the one of greatest strength remains.