I made it to Asheville today.
The air in the mountains is so damp my hair has turned into a curly mess. There are crickets and critters (Avery says tree frogs!) chirping outside. The lullaby of the valley. We live on Blue Ridge, and this mountain is called Beaucatcher. The round house looks down and into a green valley. It is literally a round house. There are fireflies and insects singing in the rain.
Transitions are the hardest part. Flying on a plane is the most convenient way to get from point A to point B, but I'm not sure that's always a good thing. Traveling is an interesting space, between departure and arrive, and that space, to me, is an acclamation time. I often feel that there is great value in lugging your suitcases, leaving one place bound for another and in turn sacrificing a day to the Gods of journey-making. But planes can move too quickly. You could be in New York at 9 am clinging to your best friends shoulders and two hours later be in a completely new world. I feel as if I should have been on a plane for hours and hours- just to feel as if I was really going somewhere. I said goodbye to Harlem this morning and said goodbye to the best friends I've ever had. This goodbye, like many others, means that the routines of one life transform. I am here and welcome the change, but the goodbyes I've said are lingering in my body: I will miss my Harlem routines, and I will miss the routines that linked me to my friends on a daily basis.
Transition is the time it takes for the mind to catch up with the body.