Debby Does…

A few days ago, as I walked along the beach, I found myself continually looking backwards. I wasn’t being followed or pursued by some nefarious individual. I was being closely trailed by my past. Honestly, I felt like my mom should be shelling right behind me and maybe she was. I continually looked for her lime green beach skirt and her distinctive Sanibel stoop.

In response, I forced myself to push ahead and look forward. The beach ahead of me was empty and full of new things to see.

These days, filled with change and stress, place me in a sort of chasm between wanting to go back to days gone by and simultaneously wanting to rush forward into what’s next. It’s a bit unsettling, to be honest, but I’m guessing it’s not that unusual.

There were lots of blissful times in my life full of family and fun and joy. As a realist, I also know that those times were actually balanced with sadness and struggle, but, though the rose colored glasses of nostalgia, all I remember is the sweetness.

I find myself wanting to go back so desperately sometimes—my mom in the kitchen, a pitcher of ice tea on the counter with the sunshine streaming in, a game of Rummikub on the table, and a local radio station on in the background playing Chanson D’Amour; the sound of the raspy screen door on the slider, opening and closing, as towel wrapped people with wet feet, fresh out of the lagoon, come in; the hottest days of summer before central air with all the shades pulled, the fans strategically placed, and the window units chugging away as I lay on the ancient Karastan rugs, ignoring their constant itch; the enticing smells from the “cooker,” otherwise known as the grill on the porch, my grandfather tending the dinner; cul de sac neighbors, flipping and dipping from house to house with fresh produce and bits of news; and the feeling that it would always be that way.

Change is inevitable and, in most moments, I’ve made peace with it. The longing for the past pokes its head around the corner sometimes, and I humor it, but I don’t live there.

At this very same moment, my tummy is filled with butterflies about this crazy adventure that we’ve decided to undertake. Selling both homes and leaving our steady jobs; stepping away from community projects that we’ve built; leaving some of the dearest friends known to man; new doctors and accountants and grocery stores and local shops; another potential home renovation; kicking bad habits, resetting routines, and looking at the rest of our lives in a new way. It’s a lot to process, yet it’s really freaking exciting.

So, here I sit—in front of me I see pictures of my grandparents, my mama and me at my wedding, seashells, an empty Heineken bottle that once held a flower from my dear Will, real estate listings, journals, and little notes from Jim about how ready he is for what’s next. I guess maybe I should just enjoy this time, nestled in between eras of my life. I might be able to find a cozy peace here.

I mean, I’ve never really been a person who is “in the now.” My mother always warned me about worrying my life away, instead of just crossing bridges when I came to them. In contrast, I thought I was born in the wrong time period—the result of books, I suppose—wanting to run wild with Anne Shirley on Prince Edward Island; live and love with my sisters, Meg, Beth, and Amy in Concord; and solve mysteries with my idol, Trixie Belden. I have never quite found my way in the present. My gaze is always twofold—ambling back to the past and barging ahead to the future.

Still, what’s next is always accompanied by what has been. I take solace in the joys of what was and pride in my willingness to burst forward into the unknown. My “now people” and “then people” are with me on the greatest support team of all time. That I know for certain.

I guess that’s just what Debby Does.

She’s pretty lucky.