Leaving before the end

We may feel as though we want the concert to last forever, but that would actually be terrible. (Image by David Mark)

I used to be the kid who had to be picked up and carried, literally kicking and screaming, to the car.

I do remember a family party at my cousins’ house. Why would I leave? Why would I want to leave? I was still having fun.

I still struggle with transitions. Whether I’m attempting to end a meal, a conversation, a jam session, or an outing, the time to wind down feels arbitrary and forced. I don’t throw temper tantrums anymore, but I do experience a pang of melancholy.

I’m learning, however, that I don’t have to follow a path all the way to a dead end. For instance, as much as I crave time with my youngest little relatives after missing them so much during the pandemic, I have to acknowledge that more time spent isn’t always better. After a few hours or a few days, we’re ready to get back to our respective routines. I soothe myself by acknowledging that I can always come back again.

Sometimes, I can’t. My last visit with a beloved uncle was a socially distanced one last October. I knew it was the last time I was ever going to see him in person. It hurt to say goodbye at that moment, and it hurt again when I hung up from a group Zoom call a couple of weeks before he died of cancer in January. But even then, more time wasn’t going to make it better. It wasn’t going to change reality or give me a deeper sense of connection. Instead, I could think back to all of the other times we spent together, building memories and bonds. I will always have those.

My toddler nephew isn’t good at transitions yet. His parents are teaching him the idea of “one more time,” complete with a wiggled index finger to make the point complete. You get one more story or song or horsey ride or shovel of sand in the sandbox, and then you move on to the next thing. Can he savor that last one, knowing it is the last? Probably not, but at least he is as emotionally prepared for the transition as he has the capacity to be. I should be taking notes.

I have grown, though, since my own toddler days. I’ve let go of houses, cars, and guitars. I’ve traveled to new places instead of just going back to places I’ve already been. These days, I’m more interested in novelty and fresh experiences than going back over familiar ground. Even last week, when I visited the city where I spent almost eighteen years, I wanted to see old friends, but I didn’t want to just do the same old things in the same old way. It was a new beginning, in a sense.

However, questions remain. How many projects can I start and never end? How many identities can I hang onto without letting go? I am grateful to my team for taking on the things I can’t do anymore, but I know I would be able to go further if I would allow myself to, delegating what I’m still clinging to. That will be the challenge of the next few months, I think.

I’m hitting the road tomorrow morning in the car I couldn’t manage to part with. I had thought about going to visit my nephew one more time. Instead, however, I said goodbye at bedtime tonight, picking him up in a long, sweet hug in which he put his head on my shoulder and wrapped his little arms around me. Of course I want more hugs just like that, but I’ll have to be content with just the one.