If change is as good as a rest, then tomorrow, when I sever the last connection to the city, life and existence I have chosen for the last 30+ years, then I am soon to enter a comatose state.
Save what I cannot and would not ever change—being mother, sister, friend and woman—I intend to swap out all else I have known, until now, my 54th year, in exchange for the unknowns inherent to unemployment, relocation, and the pursuit of a dream.
It is the last unknown that frightens me most. My dream to be a writer has lolled about in the background of my life, unattended, for decades.
The call—no, make that the shout—no, make that the impassioned intention—to become a writer transformed through time into a silent fog. It dwelled in the corners of my life, swirling and enveloping me in the rare moments when I ascended from the nadirs of every day life and gulped hugrily at the air.
It was only then that I remembered.
Always, I let the creative fog linger and tumbled back to breathe in the torrents of living and exhale out complacency. Without attention, the mist of words dissipated, settled and waited.
It was easy to tell them—someday.
With infinite patience, the words gathered and multiplied, even as I willfully cloaked the “someday” of their birth with the “shoulds” that became part and parcel of my rendition of motherhood, marriage and fiscal responsibility. I felt them round my feet at every step.
Maybe I could have chosen to give my words life instead (or even while), but perhaps I did not know how. Likely, I believed the other to be more important.
But either way, on July 13th, the plan I concocted through the last year will be set into motion. I will wake on that morning to “someday” and the will of my words.
On that day, the sale of my house will be complete and the physical manifestations of suburban life, which encompass the remaining items of marital efforts and lingering evidence of corporate career, will be packed up and stored in a 10 X 20 mobile shipping container and a 10 X 10 space located in a place aptly named, Schooner Storage.
In my neighbour’s garage, I will have stowed a smaller collection of the items necessary to furnish a tiny, two-bedroom apartment in Halifax, Nova Scotia. And on July 19th, my best friend, Leslie, and I will pack up a U-Haul and take a road trip to Halifax for an adventure, albeit three decades delayed. She will leave me there.
And there, beginning in August of 2015, I will start my MFA in Creative Nonfiction at King’s College at Dalhousie, with the goal to write and publish a book. There, I will attempt a go at life in my 50s, unencumbered by the self-imposed “shoulds,” and I will try my hand at my dream to be a writer—I will live out my someday. Finally.
Welcome to the blog of big change and old dreams. I am scared. I am overwhelmed. I don’t know how or where I will end up or what my fiscal future may be. My life is a complete and absolute unknown.
In the next year, perhaps longer, I begin with what I do know, which is this: I am Karalee, of no fixed address.