Change

Boy, I don't like change. I have spent the better part of my life trying desperately to make sure everything around me makes me comfortable. And then I got sick of it. Back in 2005, I took a chance and left my life, family and my three year relationship to live in France for six months. Not only did I think I was going to die over the Atlantic (like full on panic attack), I thought there was no way to survive without the comforts of home. Turns out I was wrong, like usual, and stayed almost two years.

Discomfort is really the only way to push your own personal limits, and trust me, the last few weeks haven't been easy. I've had to accept change in stride, which typically includes crying and feeling sorry for myself. Moving 8,000 miles away to a place that is admittedly (by Hungarians themselves) totally depressing, hasn't been an easy transition. I mean, all of their parks, songs, and monuments depict death and tragedy, which Americans can't exactly relate to. I digress.

So yesterday, Peter and I went to Kika, a better version of Ikea, and picked out a crib. Holy crap, did I have a meltdown. I was overwhelmed with colors, blankets, types of wood, and changing tables. Wait? Who's having a kid, and why the hell am I picking out all of their stuff? And why am I in Budapest and fat? And where is my grandma and niece? And then the tears began. It may also be attributed to the fact that I already spent $500+ on baby crap back home, and had to buy it all over again (whilst unemployed, which is a whole other can of worms I'm having to accept). Also, the stroller I liked out was of course $1,200, meaning it stayed right where it was. Apparently my expensive taste hasn't changed in the midst of moving.

Instead of letting the tears go on an on, I realized that it's just change...once again pushing my limits. And then I was reminded of an essay my professor gave me when I described my feelings at the end of graduate school. I will forever be grateful for him and his well-timed wisdom.

The Parable of the Trapeze
by Danaan Parry

Sometimes I feel that my life is a series of trapeze swings. I'm either hanging on to a trapeze bar swinging along or, for a few moments in my life, I'm hurtling across space in between trapeze bars.

Most of the time, I spend my life hanging on for dear life to my trapeze-bar-of-the-moment. It carries me along at a certain steady rate of swing and I have the feeling that I'm in control of my life.

I know most of the right questions and even some of the answers.

But every once in a while as I'm merrily (or even not-so-merrily) swinging along, I look out ahead of me into the distance and what do I see? I see another trapeze bar swinging toward me. It's empty and I know, in that place in me that knows, that this new trapeze bar has my name on it. It is my next step, my growth, my aliveness coming to get me. In my heart of hearts I know that, for me to grow, I must release my grip on this present, well-known bar and move to the new one.

Each time it happens to me I hope (no, I pray) that I won't have to let go of my old bar completely before I grab the new one. But in my knowing place, I know that I must totally release my grasp on my old bar and, for some moment in time, I must hurtle across space before I can grab onto the new bar.

Each time, I am filled with terror. It doesn't matter that in all my previous hurtles across the void of unknowing I have always made it. I am each time afraid that I will miss, that I will be crushed on unseen rocks in the bottomless chasm between bars. I do it anyway. Perhaps this is the essence of what the mystics call the faith experience. No guarantees, no net, no insurance policy, but you do it anyway because somehow to keep hanging on to that old bar is no longer on the list of alternatives. So, for an eternity that can last a microsecond or a thousand lifetimes, I soar across the dark void of "the past is gone, the future is not yet here."

It's called "transition." I have come to believe that this transition is the only place that real change occurs. I mean real change, not the pseudo-change that only lasts until the next time my old buttons get punched.

I have noticed that, in our culture, this transition zone is looked upon as a "no-thing," a noplace between places. Sure, the old trapeze bar was real, and that new one coming towards me, I hope that's real, too. But the void in between? Is that just a scary, confusing, disorienting nowhere that must be gotten through as fast and as unconsciously as possible?

NO! What a wasted opportunity that would be. I have a sneaking suspicion that the transition zone is the only real thing and the bars are illusions we dream up to avoid the void where the real change, the real growth, occurs for us. Whether or not my hunch is true, it remains that the transition zones in our lives are incredibly rich places. They should be honored, even savored. Yes, with all the pain and fear and feelings of being out of control that can (but not necessarily) accompany transitions, they are still the most alive, most growth-filled, passionate, expansive moments in our lives.

We cannot discover new oceans unless we have the courage to lose sight of the shore.