I've been waiting a very long time for this to happen, but now that it's here, I feel...I don't know, peculiar, melancholy, wistful. We're contrary, aren't we, silly humans. Wanting to go, then not wanting to leave. I know it's all tied up in the fear of the unknown, or the devil you know, or it's easier to stay put than put yourself out there--all the cliches have meaning if you think about them objectively.
For months I've had a small quote on the fridge that I read each and every time I reach for the door handle:
Your current safe boundaries were once unknown frontiers
And hey, in my very adventurous life, I've often given up the safe for the unknown, which makes my current odd reluctance to get on with things harder to understand. In reality, I want off this mountain, I'm tired of the isolation, I want the bright lights of the city, people, cafes, movies, bookstores.
Why then do I find myself staring out my windows, soaking in the mountain views, the valleys far below just beginning to show the greening signs of spring? Where is this pensive, down-in-the-dumpness coming from? I do want to move on; it's time for a fresh start, new vistas, all that stuff, but suddenly I'm struggling with the difficulty of imagining myself elsewhere.
Course, in the current American housing market I could be sitting here for months, if not longer, before the place sells; that should be enough time for me to get used to the idea, and adjust my thinking for the coming changes. Right??