Lobster dinner in Marshfield...remembering Dad with a Fenway tour on what would've been his 88th birthday. It’s our first morning in Boston (and we’re serendipitously breakfasting at Donna’s Restaurant), when I hear that earlier that morning, my mom Donna’s beloved Uncle Walter passed away. The silver lining is that I’ll still be in town to celebrate Walter’s amazing life the following week. Walter’s memorial is a magical event, and it's the last time I saw my wallet (and driver’s license). How do I fly home in two days with no ID? What is odd is that while the wallet never resurfaces (and we look EVERYWHERE), my credit card is never charged either. Believe me, I beat myself up over it, but finally acknowledge that two funerals for three family members in one week is a new personal record. If a lost wallet is the worst thing that results, but I’m still coherent and ambulatory, I'm good. That passport I had ordered for our canceled trip to Belize in 2020 finally has a purpose. My friend Stacey in Albuquerque FedExes it to me overnight, and there is much rejoicing. It seems the Universe has a way of hitting me upside the head with metaphors. In this case, not only do I have an upcoming day at the DMV, but a deeper question about my new identity. At Big Milestones, like graduations and marriage, we intentionally think about who we want to become. Yet life is filled with other significant moments that forever change us and our roles. Most of the time, we forge through the shifts, not consciously considering who we need to become to thrive in our new circumstances. For example, on the one hand, I’ll always be a daughter, but on the other hand, with my parents gone, that role has morphed. It’s time to consider how I can show up for others now with more depth and understanding. Our oldest is now entering middle school – which also gives me a new identity. As she grows, my parenting style better keep up, lest there be a symphony of slammed doors in casa nostra. Finally, it took being in Massachusetts for me to realize how much I still feel like outsider in New Mexico, after almost two years there. Frankly, if not for Jory and the kids, I would have been OK staying in Boston with my wallet. This awkward outsider part to my identity isn't comfortable. Mom always said it takes a year for a place to feel like home. She also said that before there was a pandemic, before all days blended into big socially-distanced masked years. Suddenly, while having the time of my life in Massachusetts, I realize I’d better do whatever it takes to embrace New Mexico so I can board the plane with my pristine passport AND a smile. I meet a friend in Beacon Hill for a fancy cappuccino. A New Yorker, she laughs at my angst and confides that Andover, where she’s lived for the past decade, still doesn’t feel like home to her. We decide this begs the questions, “What makes a place home? And when do you decide it’s time to throw in the towel and move on?” I can answer the second question about moving on with clarity because, as a parent, you’re only as happy as your least happy kid. Amazingly, our kids have embraced both their schools and our house with a fever approaching hot chilis. In fairness, they are huge improvements over our house and schools in Los Angeles. It makes no sense to move from what works so well. But that still leaves the question: “What exactly makes a place home?” Home to me is where we feel like we belong. This really just boils down to having friends who know you, from the clutter in your kitchen to the skeletons in your closet, and still like you. I’ve met interesting people here, and if we both put in more time and effort and they're not scared off, there’s a good chance I’ll be singing the kids’ tune. Home to me is also where we feel both useful and safe. This boils down to doing work that makes a difference, pays the bills and allows you to both save and splurge. We moved here because Jory felt he could easily build a clientele, and this is where we are aliens. In fact, at the Albuquerque Airport on July 6th, ten minutes before boarding our flight, Jory receives a call from one of his two clients. Having just watched the July 4th fireworks on our ridge with this client and his family, Jory figures it’s a quick call. Well, it’s quick. This client, knowing we’re leaving for Boston, succinctly lets Jory know that the Board of Directors is reshuffling, and that Jory's services, which they had praised up until now, are no longer needed. In fact, they try to get out of paying him for the last work he did. Mic drop. Jory needs about five clients to cover all our expenses, and now we’re down to one. We seem to be awkwardly skiing up the Sandia Mountains of Albuquerque, and it’s ugly. We spend the vacation with a shadow side. I reframe it in light of my “new identity” theme: What color is our middle-aged parachute? I fantasize that we learn to make Massachusetts ice cream (best in the world) and buy an ice cream truck in Albuquerque. Thankfully, saving my waistline from that fate, my dear friend Jan hooks me up with a part-time job copywriting. I don’t know when Albuquerque will feel like home or how we will cover our expenses, but the honest admission that what we’ve been doing still isn’t working fuels exploration. It’s terrifying, but as fellow Bostonian JFK reminded us at his amazing library, “We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy but because they are hard.” And with this thought, our plane lands in New Mexico.
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AuthorSteph: friend, writer, wife, mother, sister, daughter, lover of life, and of chocolate. Archives
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