Montana, Ready or Not

Time to practice what I preach… again.

Being true to myself sounds romantic until there are stacks of boxes, a change-of-address form, and a goodbye party that makes your throat tight. A few years ago, Harold and I followed my son to Washington. I was 64, desert dust still in my shoes from a lifetime in Arizona. Leaving my daughter, Amy, wrecked me, so we made a pact… lots of visits, lots of real hugs, not just hearts and exclamation points in texts. We kept it. Those hugs were the anchor.

Washington has been a gift. Nature that knocks on the window every morning and urges, “Look up”. Deer slowly parade across the backyard. Raccoons hustle like tiny burglars with somewhere important to be. Seals and otters pop up like buoys in the sea. The trees here have a thousand green hues. I fell in love with all of it.

And the people… generous in a way I hadn’t seen. If someone posts that they need a crib or a coffee table or a casserole, the comments fill with offers, porch drop-offs, and meet-ups. Kindness on a huge scale. It builds trust fast, which feels rare and holy right now. If I let myself, I could stay here forever.

Taylor, my beloved niece, lives her too.  She’s made a point to support us by helping us anytime we need it.  She’s here at the drop of a hat.  She packed, cleaned, and moved heavy boxes. And even better than that, she’s visited many times…just because…just because she loves us.  She brings her hugs and kisses…not much better than that. I’ll miss her terribly. She has a big piece of my heart.

But opportunity knocks the way my children did when they were young and I was enjoying a much-needed moment of quiet…loud, persistent, already halfway in the door. My son, Bill, and Ali are heading to Montana, and they opened the door wide for us, too. 

Big Sky Country. I haven’t seen it since I was sixteen, and even then, it was a blur of gorgeous horizon and gas stations. So… I said yes. Not a clean, unemotional yes. A yes with tears in it. Brene Brown uses the word “bittersweet,” and that’s exactly right. Bitter because goodbye always stings. Sweet because another adventure is calling, and I am fortunate enough to answer.

Here’s what I’m grateful for today, between the bubble wrap, Sharpies, and heavy boxes:

• I get to reinvent… again. It turns out this is one of my weird superpowers. New place, new rhythms, same heart.

• I get to set up a fresh little nest. I love making a house make sense and represent us… where the mugs live, which chair knows my stories and my comfort, and the exact spot where morning light lands for my cherished plants.

• I’m getting better at simple. Every three years I donate trunkloads, bless them, and let them go. The essentials get lighter and truer.

• Planes exist. Friends don’t vanish because you crossed a state line. I’ll be back here, and they’ll be in Montana, and we’ll keep showing up for each other.  So will Amy and I, thank goodness.  And so will Taylor and I.  I don’t know what I would do without either of them. 

• More time with Bill and his family. That one makes me teary in the best way.

There’s heartache, too. I’ll miss the neighbors who wave while dog walking. Our paint and other creative parties and book readings with a group of amazing people.. Adventures with Taylor….and Helen…and talks with Diana.  The trail where I learned the rhythm of rain and fir trees. And I’ll miss the specific kindness of the Pacific Northwest…the open minds, the open trunks, the porch lights left on for strangers. You all taught me something about community that I won’t forget.

Montana is its own kind of beautiful. I’ve been practicing saying “Big Sky” out loud so it doesn’t intimidate me so much. Lou, our sweet dog, is ready for the road trip…he loves a moving car and a bed in the back seat. I’m ready-ish. I’ve got wool socks, real gloves, and a jacket that could possibly summit Everest even though I’m mostly summiting the grocery store. I am not built for freezing weather… yet. But I can learn. I’ve learned bigger things.

People ask, why move again? Because life keeps offering me invitations that feel like stretch and love at the same time. Because I want to keep saying yes to the people I love, and yes to the person I’m still becoming. Because “settled” is lovely, and also… I know myself. I bloom when I’m slightly off balance and paying attention.

If you’re facing your own move…city, job, relationship, season of life…here’s what helps me:

• Name it. “This is bittersweet.” When I say it out loud, my body stops arguing with reality.

• Keep your anchors. Regular calls. Trips on the calendar. The mug that tastes like home.

• Make a tiny ritual. First night in a new place, I light a candle and say thanks. Simple works.

• Ask for help. People like to show up. Let them.

• Choose awe. When fear pipes up, I go outside and find one thing that makes me whisper, “WOW”.

I don’t think reinvention means becoming someone new. I think it means becoming more obviously who you already are. The older I get, the less I hide the real stuff…the soft parts, the messy parts, the parts that need 30 minutes of quiet before people. Montana won’t change that. If anything, the big sky might make me braver.

So… wish us well. This week, we pack the last boxes, tuck Lou’s toys in a bag, and point east. I’ll cry. I’ll probably make friends with someone at a rest stop because that’s who I am now. I’ll text my daughter, Amy, when the sky paints a sunset masterpiece. I’ll send Washington a thank-you note in my heart.

Here we go, Montana. Be gentle and a little wild. I can meet you there.

Love,

Diana
Love is ALL there is