The "T" Word

 As a young lady growing up in the prim and proper South, there were certain words I was never allowed to say, specifically the “S” word, “D” word, and “F word.”  (Which come to think of it, even now, I gag when these words attempt to wiggle their way up my throat and cross my lips.)  As an adult, I’ve added another word to the list.  What is this cursed word, you ask?  It’s the “T” word – TRANSITION.  No, it doesn’t exactly fit in the category of profanity, but certainly makes me want to swear each time I experience it.

Having transitioned from Moscow to Greenbrier just last week, in a long line of transitions over the past 23 years - from Arkansas to Barrow, Alaska, to Juneau, Alaska, to Singapore, back to Juneau, then Cairo, Egypt, and on to Moscow – I’ve determined that TRANSITION is my least favorite word in the English, or any other, language.

Sometimes I think it’s the speed with which the change occurs that makes me feel like E.T., who was suddenly uprooted when his space ship lifted off without him, leaving him lost, confused and living off Reese’s Pieces, looking for anything that reminded him of Home.  Maybe in the day of long ocean crossings, when there were endless hours of gazing at the horizon, lounging on deck chairs, letting go of one life and preparing for another, transitions were more manageable, more humane.  The day we left Arkansas for Alaska for the first time, it was 99 degrees on a hot August morning.  We stepped off the plane in Barrow, the northern-most town in the United States, 17 hours and 4150 miles later to a chilly 32 degrees and frigid blast of culture shock.   Not that I would have wanted to traverse the Brooks Range by dogsled in order to more gradually get accustomed to the Arctic, but who is prepared for that kind of monumental change in such a short time?  Not I.

I picture the “T” word as a gap, ranging in size from an easily traversed distance between stones across a shallow stream, to an abyss separating a ledge on either side.  The more life-altering the TRANSITION, the wider the gap between what was and what is, and the shakier the bridge connecting the two. (I’m talking really shaky, like one of those Indiana Jones types of bridges, where you grab onto rope handrails as rotten wood planks fall out from beneath your feet.) Of course, there are moments as I inch my way across even the widest gaps, when the view is so breathtaking that I forget about my precarious footing, when the exhilaration of the adventure propels me ahead, my hands barely touching the ropes beneath them. But then, just when I think I’ve got the hang of living with unease, I wobble, sit down and have a good cry, pull out my gratitude journal, call a friend, and gather my courage to take another step.      

Being a collector of inspirational quotes, I search my journals for words to serve as a TRANSITION mantra, to assure me that life will again even out.  I find wisdom in writings by Julian of Norwich, a medieval mystic. . .

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”  

Julian offers no timeline as to the length of time this process will take, no assurances that it will happen smoothly, nor does she say that “all will be the same.” Simply that all will be well.

With each calming repetition, I grow bold enough to tell the “T word” to take its baggage and “ Go to H. . .” But stopping short of another unladylike word, I instead pick up a shovel, some potting soil and head to my flowerbed, knowing that digging in the dirt helps bridge the gap to our Arkansas home.

(If any of you reading this would like to leave a comment about what helps you during times of TRANSITION, please do so.)