Exodus

I awoke feeling anxious. Free-floating worries which previously resided independent of one another had joined to form small knots of anxiety. I couldn't qualify it as a rock in my stomach, rather it felt more like a dozen pebbles sitting fast in the pit of my belly. Something akin to polished marbles in a leather pouch with a drawstring closure, the worries click-clacked against each other. Agitating. Stirring. Click-click-clacking. Creating a general feeling of unrest.

• Would Andrew survive the day under my friend's care awaiting Don's 6:00 p.m. retrieval after work?
• Would my friend survive Andrew, his singing-frog-itis and his high energy for the day?
• Would she be my friend after that experience?
• Could Don survive the weekend of single parenting for three?

This particular marble--worth double points--carried double anxiety. The nagging second question following the first,

• Would he survive it so beautifully and so easily as to wonder what it is exactly I get on about in my daily whining?

click-clack-clickety

The list seemed endless.

• Could I do this by myself? My bags packed, my tickets purchased, my travel instructions in hand. But always when we travel together, I chiefly rely on Don to navigate tube stations, decipher routes, and fuss with ticket agents. Am I capable of handling the inherent challenges of travel?

click-click-click

And a yet unnamed anxiety settled deep in the pit of my stomach.

clickety-clack-clack

I suppose it would be easy to chalk the entire thing up to hormonal surge, and that wouldn't be entirely without street credibility. However, the gut level truth of it was I was frightened. Just like my seven-year-old self waiting in the wings for my first solo on the big stage. What if I trip? What if I fall? What if I'm no good at this? What if? What if? What if?

With apprehension I approached my husband and confided my fears. I confessed to the child in me feeling afraid. He consoled. He counseled. And as he most often does, he left it to me to decide whether I would be walking out the front door to claim my weekend alone. I knew his support would be mine regardless of the decision I made.

I also knew with a certainty that I had to do it. Had to.

With the zero hour of departure eminent, I gathered my courage, hoisted my bag and my camera over my right shoulder and marched out the door with my pre-schooler in tow. My shoes made a resounding slap-slap on the sidewalk. My heart beat loudly, but resolutely.

click-clack-click

As we walked to the tram stop, my inner dialogue was not so much 'I think I can, I think I can' as the little blue engine might chug, but more an 'I must, I must, I must'.

clickety-click-click

While Andrew and I rode the tram across town, I examined each of the worry clusters individually, running my own one-sided conversation--a self-talk lecture, if you will--inside my head.

• Of course Andrew would be fine.
• As would my friend who had agreed to take him for Thursday afternoon and the whole of Friday.
• Obviously, we would still be friends upon the conclusion of the exchange.
• Naturally, Don would manage. And even if it did go swimmingly without a bicker, a bark, or a blow-up, I know he appreciates the job I do daily. Further, he does not begrudge me the whining. He never has.

We arrived at my friend's home where I deposited Andrew, his Lightning McQueen backpack, and instructions for his care. Specifically, tips on how to feed a boy whose food vocabulary is woefully inadequate. Andrew had immediately galloped off to play with best friend, Harry, and barely acquiesced the perfunctory kiss goodbye.

click-clickety-clack

After that, I stepped onto the bus which would take me to the Central Station, and with the worry marbles whirring, inadvertently told the driver "Naar Schipol" (to the Airport) which exposed my innermost thoughts that I just may double back if he didn't quickly get me to my airplane. It was a lucky light moment and as the driver handed me my stamped ticket, he jovially pointed out my mistake and we laughed together. At that moment, I caught my reflection in the mirror and realized that in cracking a smile, I was cracking through this anxious mess my gut was in.

Once at Central Station I boarded the train and contemplated the other contents in this sack of marbles.

click-click-click-click. I must. I must. I must.

This was the rhythm I was reduced to as the train whoosh-shushed along the tracks toward Amsterdam. Somewhere along that line, I dug deep to examine the most nagging worry of all. I named that last great worry, suddenly fully conscious that the last time I had attempted a weekend without the children was the very moment I lost someone very dear. At the moment of realization, this very glimpse into my psyche, I sucked in my breath and heaved an open audible sigh.

• 'Grandpa isn't going to die again'. I told myself 'You are going to be okay'.

The remainder of the train trip, I allowed the tears to flow, the worries to wash away. The big one carrying the small ones in tandem until most had flushed clear. When I arrived at the airport I felt put together from the inside out. I was breathing in a normal cadence, and smiling with genuine enthusiasm.

The last worry about my personal potential to travel alone was already resolving itself as I stepped through the security gates, navigated hallways and boarded the plane.

• Indeed I could do this, and what's more, I wanted to do this.

When I disembarked in Vienna and my feet hit Austrian ground, the only click-clicking left was the quick stepping tap-tap-tap of Italian made shoes on posh Viennese women. This offered a fresh counter rhythm to the comfortable slap-thuk slap-thuk of my own flip-flops as I strode through the corridors of the airport heading for the subway, to the train, to my destination.

I was well on my way and I was going to be just fine.

*Upon encouragement from Soccer Mom, I am submitting this piece to Scribbit for the August Write-Away contest.

Look! There's a Hole in the Clouds and I Can See a Little Bit of Heaven

Wordless Wednesday

On Lots of Ideas; and Nothing to Say

Inspiration is a funny thing. I feel the need to write this morning; my brain is literally buzzing with thoughts. But nothing is lining up to march down my fingertips at the moment.

It's raining as I write this and the sky is low and gray. Which probably has something to do with the mood. Things like that swing me. Markedly.

I just discovered a new blog and have been reading it voraciously. The author shares my name, Jennifer, and is also currently an American expat. That's about where our similarities end, other than the basic we both have a nose and two arms kind of sameness. Or maybe not. I look forward to knowing her better and finding out what else we share. She lauds the fact that she is a stream of consciousness writer, and having been swept into the magnetic pull of her words, I am fully in support of the style.

Maybe that's why nothing is lining up this morning. It all wants to come at once.

I have been in close e-contact this week with another Jenn (just what is it in my life with all these Jennifers?) who sent an incredibly touching note after reading my post about Grandpa's passing. She and I share that experience now; the heart wrenching experience of losing a loved one when you are far away from home. In her email she told me,

"One of my friends described grief of someone important to you as a perennial emotion. That it comes in intense waves, even long afterwards. I thought it was a good way of putting it."

I think it's a perfect description.

Sometimes those waves seem capable of pulling you under.

Generally in my life, I respond to events and happenings with emotion. I wear them all on my sleeve, so to speak. When something is pleasing to me, or I like what I see, I get goose bumps on my skin; and tears in my eyes.

When I am angry, I cry.

When I am happy, I cry.

When I am sad, I cut my hair.

I stepped into the bathroom yesterday to put some finishing touches on getting ready for the day (at noon, after my shower, which was at eleven.) and in studying my reflection knew I was overdue for a trim. It's been on my mind lately, this need for a haircut. In fact, I dreamed that I was pulling great handfuls of hair from my head just the other night. But as I stared into the mirror, I figured I would just give it a whirl myself. Who needs the salon with its trained technicians when what you really need is a cathartic experience in the privacy of your own home?

I started at the front with my bangs and then moved to the longer bits at the outer edges of my head. Soon great sweeping strokes were being made with the scissors and hair of varying lengths was tumbling into the sink and onto the floor.

The sound of the scissors cleanly swiping at my locks was fabulous. It was electric and charged and I was having a blast of the most personal kind.

After the cut, I colored it with a box of "warm blond" hair dye I found at the back of the bathroom supplies shelf. And strangely enough, after changing the length and altering the color I looked in the mirror and felt more "me" than I have felt in awhile.

It was fun. Really.

And now I am a red head.

And I survived that wave.

Today, my husband is on his way to the States to reunite with his family and support his Mom and pay honor to his grandfather. It was a virtual impossibility for all of us to go. A flight across the ocean is no small matter, and traveling with a pre-schooler, makes it an even bigger deal. So we send the dad of this clan with our prayers and hopes. And our well wishes for everyone in the family as they celebrate the life of our dear Grandpa.

I have my concerns about the week I am facing of single parenting. Usually in our lives, the children have reserved the moment of head injury, or stair tumbling, or emotional meltdown, to coincide with there only being one parent around to manage the crisis. I really hope we break with that pattern this week. Also, I love the company of the man I married, and find that when he travels I just don't sleep as well. In spite of the fact that no one is hogging the blanket.

Tomorrow I get the chance to meet a blogging friend in real life. In person. For the first time. Marloes is driving across the country to rescue me from reading boredom, and has promised she will arrive with boxes of books. I am really looking forward to the moment; to sharing a cup of coffee with her; and to chatting in person with a supportive new friend.

That should carry me through the next wave.

This is pure honesty here isn't it? And after all of this putting it out there, my brain buzz is quieter .

That feels good.

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Wordless Wednesday

Enjoy the day.