the long goodbye

It has been a while, yes, but I had to first get the Russian set up in my nest. And before that, I had to find him, which took a while too. But now his liquor cabinet is full (his son calls him an equal opportunity drinker) and shelves are cleared for his Cyrillic philosophical journalism books. And there's a Brown Betty teapot waiting for him.

Sandra, who has experience in these things, had suggested I use what the traveling nurses use,  Furnished Finder. Erica told me about sabbatical.com. I signed up for both and took an aggressive stance, reaching out to subscribers to see if they might be interested in living somewhere different than where they'd designated in their profile. Next, I stopped by local realtor offices, asked whomever I happened to be with, and finally when I started getting nervous and it was suggested I reduce the rent or minimum stay for my apartment, sent out an APB to pretty much everyone who might know someone. Just like when searching for new business, I put my energy in one place, and the answer came from somewhere else. But the answer came. Gentle Andrew and his skeptical wife Lena toured my apartment, he smiling and nodding, she with a tight face and no eye contact, perhaps frustrated that he was going to put his father in a nicer and more expensive place than she thought right. 

As with all stories about lives and decisions, this one is somewhat convoluted. There had been the question of where I belong knocking around in my head for years, and once I no longer had familial responsibilities, it visited more frequently. Despite good intention and significant effort, I wasn't able to get any closer to an answer. Enter a previous blog post, about Ghosts, which had me going to the website of Mrs. West, because that will always be here name, and some kind of weird thing happened, taking over my judgement and resulting in my sudden and shocking ownership of a three-session package for spiritual guidance. In our meetings, she said many things that were breathtakingly spot on, the one causing the most relief and clarity being the answer to the above question: I should never be in just one place. I could feel muddle and struggle draining away, and new energy and excitement coming in.

"So, you're moving to France because a medium told you to?" asked Julie quizzically. 

"Yes." 

After a return to the south of France last spring, I was leaning towards Aix-en-Provence, given that it was geographically and population-wise what I was looking for, then a dear friend told me about a connection she had there, which inched me further. But I was having trouble getting enthused as I couldn't envision anything, not having been to Aix for 20 years. Leap and the net will appear, I told myself. It was a time to continue moving forward, but pay attention to the discomfort., I decided. 

On a grey Saturday, I was lying on the couch trying to figure out where I'd be hanging my hat on December 1st, when I heard the What's App buzz on my phone. It was an old family friend I'd not been in contact with for perhaps a year, year and a half. She asked me what I was doing, I came clean, then she asked me if I wanted to spend the winter in Arles with her. Without having any more details, I replied yes, and that was that. It felt decisive

But then there was the question of what I was going to do when I was there. With a plan initially launched after digital nomading in grey and windy NL the world is my oyster, though due to a changing executive search landscape. I don't currently have any work.  I had spent the summer virtually pounding pavements with an unusual lack of success, eventually forcing me to revisit the definition of crazy. I found myself wondering whether there was something else out there for me, and advised myself to let worrying about it take a back seat. A state of limbo will have to do. Stay tuned and send ideas.

So, I committed to my Russian patriarch having a three month stay with the possibility of an extension and currently have a one way ticket to London, where I'll be beginning this leg of life with a stay at auntie's and a  boondoggle with the other two wenches, as we've named ourselves, doing things like going to Stratford-on-Avon to see Othello and navigating congestion tax. 

So, some beginning logistics are done and the mental movement can begin. It's an odd thing, stepping away from a life you love with people you love, doing things you love. Why? Perplexed, I have asked myself many times within the last month. But I know the answer. There has been a voice in me for years, wanting to spread my wings, and Europe has always felt more comfortable for me.  So, the past days have had a crystalline clarity, with long goodbyes like those in the photo above, and many more. It's been surreal, life examined is life in slow motion, as I cherish love shared and received. 

Last night, my last night of USA and uninvited texts from political causes, arose from a paddle game that prompted Laura to invite us for dinner at her house. We sat at her beautiful table laid with plates she'd bought in Hungary, enjoying bourbon and Vermont cider with a thyme sprig, an Instagram recipe for her Vermont-grown squash among other delicious things. We collectively forgot it was a Monday night, sitting for hours, moving from one topic to the next with an ease that comes from being with people you know well and trust. Moms, Halloween, health, Cincinnati, 70+ year-old influencers, sons, the F word, retirement, Stowe, Norwich and Hanover, benign neglect, and my favorite saying of the night "(a certain political party) has the mental acuity of dental floss". As it turns out, the calm before the storm of the election the next day.

With one foot in Laura's kitchen and another in Concourse C, I have equal amounts of agitation to get this party started and to return to all of you who have made this last month one of the nicest I can remember.