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Today I get to look out my window onto an open field spotted with hay bails and old cars and trucks. Beyond the field, there is a line of houses and trees and one bright red and yellow playground. In the evenings, cows line the fence close to our home. When I sit on my couch I can hear them mooing through my open window.

In the morning, the sun rises to the right of my window. I can’t see it unless I get up close to the window and look to the right as it crops along the horizon of the field. But from my bed, I can see the rainbow of colors fill the sky. This morning it was blue, purple, and pink. The most beautiful shades of pastels. Rich and reflecting in the lightly foggy, humid air. 

The smells out here are fresh, wafting from the trees and the bushes and the grasses. Sweet, musky, woody. The perfume of the gods. As natural as can be. It relaxes my nervous system. Thank you, Mother.

It’s not as quiet as one would want it to be or expect it to be given the scenery and the smells. The roads nearby are more heavily trafficked these days than they once were. So the hum of cars and trucks persists throughout the day. But it’s tolerable and nothing compared to the sounds of the city from where I came.

This is my new home. For now, at least. A home filled with five dogs that bark endlessly throughout the day at the various noises and the comings and goings of people. Many people. It’s a full house. Seven of us. 

Plus, workers still arrive intermittently to complete final tasks on the home. It’s a never-ending list of tasks it seems. God bless the day these tasks come to an end and my family can finally be settled back into the home they so abruptly left one year ago this month. 

It’s been surreal moving back into this home. My mother’s home. My step-father’s home. The home that’s been under construction for the last nine months and sat waiting in the months prior to that. 

It’s been a hard year for them, for everyone. A place of stability torn away in the middle of the night following a lightning strike, a fire, and flooding. A home returned to them now re-built. 

In the midst of the year, it felt like these days would never arrive. While I wasn’t living with them when the event occurred, I’ve always loved coming here. I’ve lived here once before and was frequently over here spending time with my family. Even though they found a rental home nearby it still felt ungrounded and in flux. And we were all itching for the home to be finished.

The Monday before last we all sat around the table eating lunch as the boxes lined the hallways and the furniture worked its way in. It all felt surreal. Just yesterday we were yearning to be back into this home. Back into this space that has been a home to so many people over the years. And now here we were. 

It should be no surprise I waxed existential… What is time? Only yesterday a feeling of yearning. Today our desires fulfilled, erasing all the feelings that accompanied the wait. I questioned the existence of the in-between. “This too shall pass,” as the saying goes. 

I take this to heart as I’ve been clinging to feelings of yearning and waiting for a future and now moments beyond this one. Beyond the void period of uncoupling. Beyond my transition out of one home into a temporary home. Beyond my current line of work. I see you.

I know that this void shall pass. This transition shall pass. This work shall pass. It all shall pass. It is inevitable. What is next will arrive. And when it does all that is here right now will move on. I need not hurry or yearn or crave or avoid. 

I can be here with the feelings and presence of this moment deeper and deeper, knowing full well these experiences won’t be here forever, no matter how I feel about them. It is what’s here now. And soon it won’t be anymore. 

There is something here for me in this in-between. Or else it wouldn’t be so. I can open and deepen even more to what’s here, no matter how I feel about it (or, because of how I feel). No matter how it differs from what I expect or desire. I can trust that this too shall pass. 

Not as a way to justify the experience but as a means of deeply honoring, respecting, and valuing what is here. Of honoring myself at this moment. Of soaking up all the juice, harvesting all the bounty, mining all the gold. Deepening now allows for a greater deepening later. 

These in-betweens won’t last forever. And, if acknowledged and honored appropriately, they can be highly fruitful and yield immense wisdom, insight, learning, and growth. They are potent periods of transformation – no matter how difficult or trying; or, rather, because of how difficult and trying. 

“Honor the space between no longer and not yet.” – Nancy Levin

So, how much presence can I bring to this now moment? For myself, for the people I’m with, for the land I live on, for the home I dwell in, for the animals I love. How deeply present am I willing to be? 

Because… This too shall pass.

*Hand on Heart* *Feet on the Ground* *Deep breath* 

“I am here. I am here. I am here.”

Photo by Sven Becker on Unsplash