The lasts of California

So, after a year of waiting and two of planning, you and I have finally arrived.

It's strange and funny because three years ago, we had been in a very similar place. And I had felt the roots of change stretching down below me, but I hadn't seen the fledgling plant push its soft stem up through the soil and unfurl its first young leaves to catch the sun yet.

It's the same, now. We have been feeling new roots yawn and span out below us, have seen a few of them as they push through the soil deeper, deeper, deeper. But the stem system is still vague, still unseen, still below.

This is part of what makes change so beautiful: feeling, or rather comprehending the first signs like a vague intuition in your gut. Knowing the new things somehow are extending beyond yourself, gaining nourishment from places unseen, untouched. Then sitting there - and waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Then, one day jumping from surprise as new life literally bursts before you from the sleepy soil - and the thing that was dormant but coming has begun to live.

Moving, or perhaps just life, is sort of like that.

So, today is our last day of watering the old things.
Love tells us to hope that we haven't felt these places dry, barren, without fertile soil to grow new changes once these two pack off toward another garden. And so, today, we pat down the soil in these old pots one last time, give a little last water, and leave them to the care of others. And we let our new roots flourish, leaving them to sunlight and warmth, so that we can look forward with patience and trust to the first sights of fresh green.

But, not until the return from tending other plant in other places that grow well with a little help.