The last few nights the desert air breathes through our windows. There is a defined chill that passes through the pores of our screen. I hug my Jaipuri blanket and sink into the warmth of our bed. Outside cars are hurrying even though it is almost ten o’clock at night. In  my ear, the chimes ring with a faint echo. A sound of helicopter strums a little song. And then within minutes, a wholesale change steers the air in a different direction. It is quiet. A silence glides in just as easily as the noises of the out-of-tune symphony just moments ago.

It is what happens between the noise and the silence that often unsettles the more unchartered terrain of my heart. I often talk about how I am averse to change and that my being thrives on ritual and routine. My weariness multiplies in periods of transition. My daughter is close to losing two teeth. Every few minutes she reminds me that she will lose almost 9 teeth. With every clink of baby white in the sink, my heart falls just a little. She is transitioning into a young little girl to an older, more mature being. She knows the meaning of words that I didn’t even fathom. With every little revelation from her, I feel the shake of transition. I worry that in just a few short years, I won’t hear the “I love you Momma” every few seconds and that she rather spend her time with her friends than in my office. Children definitely make transitions palpable.

I am 38 and some days I feel the wear of my age. My joints don’t feel as fresh and there are many more random aches and pains that come up unexpectedly. The gray hairs are forming a nest at the side of my temple, while my face looks a little less vibrant. It’s a part of aging and life. I know this, but it does not make the transition any less difficult.

There are other transitions that are less cosmetic and more sharp. I know of at least a few friends that have life-threatening illness and the dreaded C word is a part of their everyday vocabulary. I’ve witnessed people lose their parents and friends and acquaintances. In the last two months, at least five of our friends are moving out-of-state. These incidences remind me the transient  lighthouse that always is glaring around us.

There are ways I’ve tried to embrace the uncertainty. I’ve read books, attempted to meditate and learned to be fully aware that a transition is just a passageway to next something and that the cycles begins again. It doesn’t provide a salve to my wound. It just heightens the anxiety that comes with transition.

The clouds are thick and perhaps that is how it is meant to be. The transitions are passageways that serve as a vessel to the next something. You navigate, while hoping that the possibility of silence will help you muddle through the cloudiness of this transition.

Image by Klearchos Kapoutsis

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