And the thunder rolls

There are few things more exciting in my mind than to really experience a thunderstorm. One of my fondest memories is sitting on the front porch of my best friend's house, perched above the neighborhood, watching rain pelt down on the street and lightening illuminating the sky. We would run to the grocery store while the winds built before the storm came and get a roll of pre-made cookie dough. We got two spoons and shared it the while rocking in the big swing together. We would chat about first kisses and crushes during the lulls of the storm. The feel of thick summer air vibrating with energy always brings me back to that spot.

In Texas, dark clouds would build over the mountain range over the course of hot, summer days. If you were lucky, those clouds would build and build until they exploded into a fury only nature can create. The hard desert floor couldn't swallow the sheets of rain fast enough and the ground would quickly flood. It was so alien to hop between these small lakes of water in the hot and usually, dry, Chihuahuan desert. One day the clouds exploded while a friend and I were on the side of the mountain. We were on the steepest trail in the park, making our way down. The steep grade was a crumbly, rock substrate that we had to scurry down as quickly as possible. That is, as quickly as possible, without slipping into one of the threatening agaves, waiting patiently on the side of the trail. We found a huge boulder off the side of the trail that gave us shelter from the rain, and more importantly, the lightening. From this spot we could enjoy the show until the clouds disappeared further down into the desert.

Iowa always had amazing storms. Something about all those wide, open spaces made storms even stronger. The wind would whip and the sounds of thunder would shake the house. I knew I should be scared, but I was too excited. Before we moved I was waiting for just one good storm before I left. I watched the forecast (ok so I checked the weather on my phone, but religiously) and each day the little thunderbolt appeared for the upcoming day. Every day came and then went, without a storm. I really thought, aah, the storm gods are just building anticipation and they will come through with a  great one  for me right before I leave. It didn't happen. It was such a disappointment. I'll try to be an optimist and say that now I can remember the storms in a way that was probably better than they ever were in reality (but really Iowa is just disappointing).

For me small things, like thunderstorms, are some of my favorite things about life. I enjoy what I can often miss if I am too busy. The feel of a warm towel from the dryer, the sight of green leaves swaying in the wind, the taste the first sweet watermelon of the season,  the sound of hooves hitting the pavement, or even the smell of tires when you first enter Fleet Farm. Sometimes big things I really look forward to end up letting me down in the end, because I have built them up so much in my mind. It is when I work on being in the present, not ruminating about the past or anticipating the next day, but really experiencing life in that moment, that I am happiest. Maybe sometimes I am guilty of getting too wrapped up in being present and forget to make long term plans, but I feel like I am truly living life when I am in this mindset. No one can predict what tomorrow can bring. If I spend all of my energy sorting out the future, won't I regret not experiencing what is right in front of me? I find myself more content in activities that I used to think of as chores. I can find joy in matching socks (I pretend it is a game of pick up sticks and try to match a pair without touching any others) or slicing vegetables for supper or sucking up dog hairballs with the vacuum. Of course no one who is human can always be in the present, but the more work towards it, the better I feel. I'll keep striving for the right balance, but if you see lightening, don't be expecting me to be doing much other than looking out on the storm.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes...

I stink at change. It is probably one of my least attractive traits. I have had this problem for as long back as I can remember. I am in the midst of change now. As I write, movers are packing my things. The boxes are starting to accumulate. One would think I would welcome this change. We have been talking about leaving Iowa in the dust for years. We are happy to be moving back to Wisconsin. Yet this tightness in my chest and rolling in my stomach is building. Even good change is hard.

My dog left last week to make the move ahead of me. On our last afternoon together we sat out on the deck and I watched him sit in his favorite spot watching traffic and squirrels. I mourned the loss of this favorite spot for him. I clung to the familiarity of this image. The dumb thing about it is that the dog could care less. He just needs food, water, and a walk. Maybe a bone to gnaw on. I was making up stuff to freak out about.  Next I am going to worry about my plants missing the exact angle of sunshine they receive at their window here. I am a special kind of change-hater.

Moving from one state to another is a considerable change. Most people would understand having a moment of nostalgia. I am much worse at change than that. I get sad when my husband leaves for work every morning. Then I get anxious when he comes back from work. Yes, even the small, familiar shift from him being gone, to being here again irks me. Then there is leaving to go to Wisconsin for the weekend, going on vacation, even going to run errands-  all these changes make me uneasy. The prescription for Xanax has not been wasted on me. Don't worry too much, I haven't become a hermit yet- I lure of magical "finds" at TJ Maxx and Thai food will keep successfully calling me out of the house.

I don't know what it is that makes change so hard. Is it the fear of the unknown? Do I actually secretly like the places and things I leave so much that it causes this heartache? Am I just a baby that embraces any chance to feign distress?

I tried to live a life that changed all the time: a new apartment every year of college; studying abroad and becoming a seasonal park ranger. It never got easier (one year I literally puked everyday in rebellion against the change.) I always counted the days until I could go back home while in in these situations, yet when the time came to leave I worried that it was too soon. Even now I pine for places that I didn't really embrace while actually there. I suppose I will make up things to miss about Iowa too.

I know that memories live on inside me, not in the places I leave. Yet I ruminate about all the special moments that occurred here and somehow feel like I am losing those memories. My husband proposed here. This is where we adopted our dog from the shelter. This is the first real home I had since leaving my parents' place. I could go on with stupid, little things. It doesn't matter, I can remember these things from Wisconsin, or Tahiti even, it just doesn't matter where I am. So, why can't I let it go?

Thankfully there are a few things comforting me this time around. I always moved alone, a lone ranger if you will. Now I have my husband and my dog. These things are a constant. I know that wherever I land next they will make it a home. Now I just have to figure out where that place to land is...