It's Time

They say that a woman’s biological clock ticks away to the point that she knows when it’s time to feel concerned about her parental state. I wouldn’t know. Thankfully I have been relatively sheltered from the pain of that yearning as motherhood hasn’t come to fruition for me.

But the other morning as I drove to physical therapy in Burbank my eyes and heart took a long trip down memory lane and I felt, unequivocally, it’s time. Time to move on.

I’ve lived in this place for 15 years, 3 months, and 18 days. But who’s counting? I’m not anymore, surprisingly.

When I moved to Los Angeles as a newlywed (well, 1 year into marriage), I promised my new husband that I would “give it a good try” and not whine about having to live in California so he could make a go of his career in the film industry. After 5 years here, we looked at each other and asked, “What, precisely, defines a ‘good try’ in this scenario?” Since neither could answer, we lived on for another five and then changed the question to, “Well where else would we go now?” Somehow, slowly, this place became my home. I wasn’t ready to admit that I actually like living in Southern California until about two years ago. And it wasn’t until after Charles’ passing, when it was really no one else’s fault but my own that I lived here still, that I willingly stood up and shouted, “I love living in LA! This is my home! I don’t want to move!”

Despite the fact that I finally love it here and I finally feel like I’m here on my own volition, I know it’s time to go. It’s awful to admit that a Rascal Flatts song precisely sums up the way I feel:

I've lived in this place and I know all the faces
Each one is different but they're always the same
They mean me no harm but it's time that I face it
They'll never allow me to change
But I never dreamed home would end up where I don't belong
I'm movin' on

Don’t get me wrong—this place and its faces have been very good to me. I’ve made friends who have supported me through a great period of learning:

Learning to be married, Learning to have a career, Learning to juggle non-existent money, Learning to accept childlessness, Learning to love others’ children without envy, Learning to be a leader, Learning to grieve, Learning to be single again, Learning to love again.

This great yearning to move on comes from a desire to keep on learning—only I know that I have learned what I came here to learn and that in order to grow in the next phase of my life I need to be somewhere else.

I was afraid to move right after Charles died because I didn’t want any more major life changes all at once. I also was afraid of being accused of running away. I’m not a coward and I’m very stubborn. I have spent the past 17 months slowly weaning myself away, instead. I have appropriately (I think, and that’s all that matters, really) reveled in all the old things that used to bring Charles and me comfort. I have sufficiently cried at memories of places that only he will understand. I have sifted through the habits we developed as a couple and adopted the ones I want to keep for my own (like going to the movies, going to concerts, enjoying good restaurants, and hiking on Christmas).

Besides weaning myself away from the life I built with Charles, somehow I have started to build a life of my own with habits of my own (like urban exploration, hiking on Sundays, cooking gourmet at home, and watching hockey). It has been long enough that I no longer feel like I’m being disloyal to the life I built with Charles as I build a new life that belongs just to Heidi. I’m happy in my home—even though it is full of memories of the man who shared it with me for 14 years. However, I can feel that this home is kicking me out.

While on that drive to physical therapy the other day I drove past the Chase bank branch that used to be a Washington Mutual—where we opened our bank account the week we moved here. It was a little thing to remember, but it will always belong to November 1998.

I also drove past the little post production studio where Charles rolled in and said, “I’m looking for work. I’m available.” A slightly bigger thing to remember, but it will always belong to March 1999.

And so it goes. Everywhere I drive, I have a memory. They aren’t painful; they’re fun, usually. But those memories belong to my past. They’re written down in my journals. They’re recorded in my personal history. They’re summed up in playlists in iTunes. It’s not that they don’t matter. It’s almost like they’re willingly packing themselves up in boxes labeled, “Pull me out when you’re in the mood for a good cry” and shipping themselves to my future…in some other destination.

I don’t know where that future is located; it’s too early to tell. I love it here, I love the life I have here, and I love the people I have here. Wherever my next home is, it’s time.