What a strange combination of caution and recklessness. Of preparation and being in the moment. I suppose they’re all shades of grey. Just like the sunlight. Stripping away the contours. Putting me in between the same sky and the same land where I've always existed. But not, all the sudden.

What makes a temporary thing so alluring? Why is it that if I know I’m going to be here only for a few years it takes the pressure off? Knowing there's an end date means that I don't have to consider ten years in advance when I ask a fellow mom a question on the playground?

It began with a toy not packed. Midway there was a shirtless, furious seven year old stomping alongside a park road alone. At the end there was a thunderstorm worthy of its Texas roots.

In the meantime, I am treading water with a stitch in my side. There is no timeline of knowing it worked. Any normal person would be smiling and excited in this situation. But the fact is, I am a worrier. I wish I could rearrange those vowels. Because a warrior did appear when it was time to make the decision for this change and I’m grateful for her arm-twisting. But I suppose her work here is done; she hasn’t showed up much in the time since.