In Between

This is a strange feeling week.
I'm neither here nor there, yet in such a safe and comfortable place - the home of Dave's aunt and uncle, where Dahlia and I are so welcome and at ease.
But it's a strange limbo place, the place in between, the place of waiting.

Yesterday I walked through my empty apartment in Oakland with the building manager sent by my landlady.
It was strange, almost eerie, to walk through the empty apartment that has been our home for three years.
This place where we never quite settled in, in spite of all our stuff crammed into every corner.
We had a nice stint in Oakland, and it was especially good for Dahlia and for me as a mom, but we didn't plant roots there.
I guess we knew this wasn't going to be the place for us to grow much longer.

I'm still detaching the cord that connects me to that empty flat, and feel a little haunted by how much hard work I did there in the last few months, preparing for this big beginning.
I'm looking forward to seeing some friends come visit us here in Marin, but after yesterday I don't want to go back to the East Bay.
I've said goodbye, ready.
Stopping by the Richmond Costco and having my parking spot taken by three different drivers made the leaving much easier.

I don't think I'll go to San Francisco again either, except to drive through on our way to the airport next Monday.
Dave and Dahlia and I had our San Francisco day over Memorial Day weekend, and we went to our old haunts and bid our farewells.
We celebrated Shabbat and my birthday last week at Jeffrey's, where we've celebrated many Shabbats and Mad Hats parties and Passovers and other events.
That was so sweet.
We're doing this departure in a complete and whole way, all the while feeling very loved and held.
And ready.

It's funny to spend my last week here in Marin, in the one part of the Bay Area where I never actually lived in, but which I've known well since high school, when I used to drive up here from Palo Alto to see my Peace Child friends.
In a way it makes it easier, less empty.
This place of limbo, this in between space - just after and just before - feels kind of floaty.
A little scary, even, if I think about it too much.
Waiting is always a strange sensation, filled with a desire to get on with it, mixed with some hesitation and a stillness at knowing I can just wait for now.

It's strange not to have Dave here this week.
He and Stan may get to Cincinnati a day early, because they've been making great time driving cross-country.
Last night they rested their heads in Laramie, WY; tonight they sleep in Iowa.
Such strange and foreign places to me, kind of intriguing.
I'd love for Dave to come back here a day early, to rest before we set off again.
To be here with us in this in between place.

My sweet little girl is sleeping just behind me in the big king bed we're sharing this week.
I've been loving sleeping with her at my side.
It's incredibly sweet, and so is she.
She's enjoying the adventure of being here now, and still talks about "our house," not quite understanding that we're not going back there.
Though I imagine, having seen everything emptied out and put in the truck or in suitcases must tell her something's up.
It's the only house she's known, really, since we left the Outer Richmond in SF when she was 5 months old.
It's all still very abstract to her, though - what can she understand yet about moving to another country or state?

It stirs up my own memories - those recounted to me by my parents enough times that they became mine, and those memories that have always been mine - of moving from country to country.
Part of my story: By the time I was seven, I'd lived on three continents.
My first language was Hebrew; my second was French; English was only my third.
Part of Dahlia's story: When I was three and a half, I moved with my parents to Jerusalem, then my baby sibling was born just after they moved to Cincinnati...
Who knows, really - all we have are our plans, and we know how fast those can change.
I've time traveled often to Dave's ordination from rabbinical school, though, and I've always seen us there with two girls.

I finished reading Fingersmith by Sarah Waters tonight.
That's the book I've been reading, slowly but surely, for the past 6 weeks, possibly more.
Determined to finish it before leaving so I wouldn't have to take a half read book on the plane.
An amazing and haunting escape from the reality of my day to day.
Mildly creepy, not comforting, but hard to put down.
England in 1861, so foreign a place and time, so radically different, such a spooky and wonderful story.
I imagine the images of the story will remain in my mind for as long as I can remember this big move we're making.
"And right at that time, I was reading Fingersmith..." And I'll be able to see it all in my mind again.
Books are like that, just like songs.
Like how The Time Traveler's Wife will forever be imprinted in my mind with the beach in front of our little balcony in Tulum.

A lot still has to happen before we land in Jerusalem.
We're here until Monday, then fly to New York.
Then we're in New York for a few days, playing in Central Park in the New York summer heat with Karina and her family.
Seeing friends, visiting Dave's aunt Suzanne and her family visiting from Israel.
Then we fly to Tel Aviv, and spend Shabbat with Ilan and Ziva, my dad's amazing long-time and loyal friends.
Then we get to Jerusalem on July 1st, and settle into the first of our two apartments - where we'll be for the first month.
Then we move to the apartment where we'll be for 10 more months.
And I'm sure, before we can blink, we'll be packing our suitcases to come back again, headed for Cincinnati.
Then...

Well, I've time traveled there too, and my most vivid image is of our kitchen in what is going to be our first home that we own.
I know we're going to move there, because I've spent time in that kitchen already.
I know Dahlia and her sibling will run around in the backyard, and I think there will be a tree for a tire swing.
More than that... well, right now I can just be here, in this in between place, content in knowing that there is a lot ahead of us, and that it is good stuff.
Smiling at the thought of my husband... finally... starting... rabbinical school. Amen.