Tag: moving

Re: Transition

Death is a transition. I’m not about to suggest what might be found on the other side of life, but I do feel that anyone’s death causes a ripple in the cosmic fabric. My father-in-law died. His death caused his immediate family to pause and consider; “What comes next?” While he is in transit, who knows where, we living souls must decide how and where to continue our existence.

My wife’s mother, after 68 years with the same fella, after living almost 40 plus years in the same place, has decided she wants to come home with us to Victoria, BC. There will be many stages to this transition. As my special mom comes to terms with no longer being a wife she appears to be open to the probability of forming new relationships. There may be time for assisted living. Some of her friends have said they are enjoying the experience. Another scenario might be a new home to accommodate the three of us. We will have to tread slowly as we respectfully navigate each other’s preferences while adapting to any new possibilities. Decisions will have to be made with sometimes conflicting emotional interests: sentimentality, practicality, comfort, personalities, individual abilities and disabilities will all have to be balanced to find a new normal.

A physical move is often difficult: packing, a relocation road trip and unpacking! There’s an endless need to analyze information to determine the best course of action. Everyone has a moving story that fits somewhere on a spectrum of Hell to Mildly Annoying. Time can modify the worst of these experiences so they can eventually become humorous. The mental and emotional toll is never easy to cleanse. The psychological transition may require metaphorical bandaids to patch over ruffled feathers. Dismissive words that belittle real worries can add to the trauma of transit from point A to point B.

It is in this regard that I can find empathy with Transexual individuals. Their journey requires a movement of realms beyond my comprehension. It is a monumental transition, not entered into lightly. I have taken my sexuality for granted, yet I can empathize with the journey required to find peace within your own body. Elders, like me, can certainly relate to a body that changes with age. As our parts deteriorate we moan that we don’t like what we see. Those wealthy enough will choose surgery to pull their saggy bits back into place. We’ve all looked in the mirror and been judgemental: Society’s gaze can be crippling especially as you transition into a new you.

From birth to death we are constantly in a transitory state. There are times when we feel stagnant. In all the times of my life, I have hated stasis the most. Whether we are moving through time or space we can make our experience easier or harder. I’ve learned to seek people and advice like I would opening a book. Information assists me in making better decisions. Other’s stories can enable a smoother transition regardless of the nature of the change.

Re: Move

A fellow my age moved into our complex last weekend. He had a small rental moving van, his daughter and another young fellow were helping. I introduced myself and welcomed him to the neighbourhood. He puffed, “ I’m getting too old for this moving business. Next time I’ll pay someone.” Like me, he had concluded that he was coming to the end of his moving on, moving in, moving out options. I figure my next move will be my last. I’m no longer as young as Billy Joel when he recorded this ode to movement; then again neither is he.

Many of us can describe multiple moves within our lifetime; some comical, some hair-raising, some ill advised, some work related, some to upgraded digs and others for practical reasons only. We move because we can and we move when we have no choice. In our youth we can relish the feeling of being on the move; people to see, places to go. Couch surfing is a great descriptor of an adolescent’s freedom of movement. A backpack and a place to lay your head are all the requirements needed for adventure. When we get older our joints are less moveable, we’ve accumulated things and we’re settled into our routines. The movement that becomes most important is that of our bowels, preferably on a regular basis.

I’m emotionally moved more frequently these days. A song might move me to tears. A conversation might move me to action. I can be moved by a single line in a film. I find moving pictures, or movies, to be aptly named. Who doesn’t laugh at the movements of Charlie Chaplin, the physical humour of Dick Van Dyke or Melissa McCarthy. I found Earnest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast yawn inducing yet his poignantly perfect The Old Man and the Sea continues to feed my emotions and my thoughts.

“Move it!” would be something my mom would shout when she was exasperated with my sister and me as we lollygagged before a trip. Getting in the car usually meant a long uncomfortable drive in hot muggy weather to visit someone we didn’t like. We had several household moves during my childhood, always to find a dwelling my folks could afford to rent. My favourite move was to a falling apart farmhouse which had a chicken coop where my job was to collect the eggs every morning. Later we moved up, status-wise, to actually owning a small semidetached house in suburbia, which unfortunately took me away from all my high school friends. I’ve only cried harder twice more in my life. In my case it’s probably not coincidental that emotion contains the word motion, i.e. movement.

My latest move came after retirement, to a land of milder climate. I’m no longer moved by the sight of gently falling snow, nor angered by the need to shovel the driveway. I’ve removed all reference to winter. This home finds me moved by the plaintive call of the gull and the beauty of the seashore.