The Beginning of the Future

This is the day. We're an hour from İstanbul. Our house of nearly eight years was left empty, barren. All evidence of our lives there packed into boxes and hidden away. Except for a suitcase, a duffel bag and four backpacks. It's probably more than we need, it's certainly more than I wanted to carry.

What do I feel in this moment? Flying to Tbilisi, Georgia on a one-way ticket, unsure of where we'll be in a few short months. Excited, anxious, or maybe slightly confused and disoriented. After what felt like an unceremonious final departure from our home, I simply don't know. But how many times can I say goodbye to the squirrels in the back yard? Or stare at the fir tree I both lovingly limbed and despised every spring when it covered our truck in luminous, green pollen before it descends into the realm of sentimental ridiculousness. How are these things supposed to be done? Should we have burned an effigy? An offering to the shared memories of a wonderful home. A fireworks display? Or should we just have walked out the front door, without even a sideways glance over our shoulders at our past existence, and fearlessly marched into the unknown. Who the hell knows. Things going forward will be different, new and engaging, perhaps scary and uncomfortable at times, but I am so grateful to have this opportunity and a life partner who's crazy enough to share it with me.

Right now, I'll partake in the collective excitement of my fellow passengers, as many gaze out the window at Istanbul, several thousand feet below. Some seeing Sultanahmet's ancient skyline for the first time, and others seeing home, that familiar place we left behind. Here we go. Tomorrow, we'll be eating breakfast in Tbilisi.