I always loved meeting them.
The people who came through our door, seeking help. I always loved meeting them.
Their lives began to weave into mine, and soon I knew their struggles, their paths. I would study their faces and cement their stories into my brain so I could pull them out the next time they walked through our door, that door that had a tendency to slam on windy days.
I loved so many of them there.
The one who would call just to talk as he sat people watching at the grocery store food court across the street, because he had no one to share dinner with.
The one who had lost every member of his family one by one, and went out each night, rain or shine, just to get out of his quiet house.
The one who took care of a husband who no longer recognized her.
The man who hid his crushing depression so well.
The one who got the bad news from the doctor, and finally left for that cross country road trip he had been putting off with the love of his life. I never heard from him again.
The soul who found me the job and used to come visit twice a week, then once, then finally said goodnight to this world from the same room that I’m writing to you from right now. She was tough as tree bark and as soft as the Washington clouds, all wrapped in a horse sweater.
There were so many stories. So many lives. So many friends.
The one who hired me had helped to keep the pain at bay as each of these people fought their battles.
For a few minutes during each of their visits, our hearts would beat in rhythm.
They knew parts of my story, and I knew parts of theirs.
I loved them.
Just over a week ago, I lost my job. Every morning since then I’ve been waking up thinking it’s time to go get ready before realizing I have nowhere to be. At that point I lay in the dark without moving and tell myself, you’re ok. This is ok. Change is ok.
It’s time for me to enter into a new season.
I’ve always loved to watch the seasons turn. Even when I lived in the Bay Area, I would drive along the stretch of road in front of the graveyard that held the trees with the leaves that would fall to their own fiery deaths, just so I could get into that feeling of change, that feeling that something new was coming.
Here in the Pacific Northwest, the seasons turn with a shout into the wind that no one can miss. “I’m here!” fall seemed to scream in the flaming trees that burned the skyline this year.
“I’m coming…” winter promises with the early morning frosts that bite and linger as the weak sun climbs.
Change is coming. Change is here.
I keep reminding myself that change is good.
Perhaps this change will allow my body to finally get what it needs. A few weeks ago marked the beginning of the episode that brought on the end of my time in the room with that door with the tendency to slam in the wind, as it was either take some time to let my body heal itself or immediately go ahead with a third and more drastic surgery. I chose to let my body attempt to repair itself with the help of rest, fewer pills and more natural remedies.
I wish that decision hadn’t resulted in a text on a Thursday morning, but I know it was wishful thinking to hope that the world would be patient while I fought.
Grace is a gift, not a given, which is why it is so appreciated when it glitters within sight.
And so it is time for my feet to turn to a new path.
I pray for the lonely souls who rest in crowded grocery stores at dinner time. For those who seek escape from houses that don’t speak, whose spouses are strangers and who hide their despair behind a perfect white smile. I pray for the lovers in an old RV, somewhere out on the open road.
I pray for them all. I pray for the paths that their feet are on, and where they may lead – though I know they won’t cross mine anymore.
As for me, I’m watching my season turn.
Each turning is always a breath of new life.
So I’ll breathe.
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