Christina Rosalie

Collaborative art by me & the boys



When I wake up still feeling out of sorts: achey headed, light sensitive, and all-round fragile, I feel betrayed. Who gets sick, I think, with just a week and a half left before moving for the first time in eight years? But of course, that’s why I’m feeling off, as Elizabeth gently pointed out to me in an email today. My ultra-sensitive constitution is humming with the vibrations of change that all of us are trying to wrap our heads around. Processing.

At the kitchen counter drawing together before dinner Bean says, “I’ll miss watching the snow falling from those windows on my birthday.” He sits looking out the windows in the dining room where now the foliage is green and lush, but come winter, are the best ones for watching the snow fall. Each flake fat and white, while inside just there, you’re always warm by the wood stove, the table golden in the pale winter sun.

After dinner the huge, pink cumulus over the mountain top gather, bigger than imagination, wider than a dream. “Oh T, look,” I say, and he comes over, and the boys follow after and we all stand staring. The boys are in various states of undress getting ready for bed. T rests his hand on my lower back; presses his lips into my hair. The blue hunched shoulders of the mountain settle in the twilight. The clouds nestle in, the sun’s setting turning their bellies to flame. This view, oh this view. Every day changing, yet every day the same. How I’ll miss it.

Sitting in my studio later, the coyotes call, as if just for me. First one, then several, their wild, giddy yelps rising up among the night sounds of whirring katydids and crickets, tree frogs and owls. It’s these things I’ll miss the most. The way the natural world edges up close here; close and hungry, finding us at the door every morning: the small garden snake on the path; the moths by the lamp; the cedar waxwings in the lilac.

The move is what we need and want. I’m hungry for cultivation. For culture. For community. For the connectivity and ease of living just 2 miles from the heart of the city. But still, the actual process of moving: of heading face first into the unknown of it, feels daunting.

Isn’t this always the way? The hardest part of change is the anticipation that comes before; the huge fractured maze of what we can’t imagine. The particles of possibility are infinite. Any way might turn out, or no way. That’s what our minds say, at the doorway of the unknown, and in turn, what’s known becomes beloved. Familiar becomes nostalgia overnight. Not because it is right or true, but because the course is already set. Because the heart knows its way through, each turn familiar and made by habit.

Change is always this: A thin, perforated line between known and unknown; it’s like one of those one-way metal grids in parking lots that prevent backing up. We’ve already changed. Crossed the line. Made the move to move. Now we’re just catching up.