News from the deep

There’s a reason why fish-out-of-water TV shows get stale after a season or two. We, as a species, are marvelously adaptable. We might be pulled, flailing, out of the water and set under a foreign and relentless sun; but, eventually, we spot the water and fling ourselves back in. It is our way. We find new hiding places, new schools of fish to keep us safe. We get comfortable. From a thematic perspective, there’s just not much to say about comfort. And so some of us, who write so prolifically about being fish out of water, feel little compulsion to tell the world: “Come on in. The water’s fine.”

All this is a roundabout way of saying that which I would not have thought possible in 2005: I went native. It’s all Denver’s fault. It was too friendly – I made my first friend the day I moved in. She was the first, but she certainly wasn’t the last. I have had more “made family,” as one member calls it, than I have had in the whole of my life. I learned about myself, and about that of which I am capable. I found my strength. I found love. I found my song. And I became addicted to seeing a new postcard scene around each corner.

Damn you, Denver. You were so inviting, so warm. So many fishies beckoned me to come in, and in time, I did. I found my voice. I laughed. I found a vast and supportive network that buoyed and comforted me through the birth of a child, the death of a parent, and three job losses. And, not to put too fine a point on it, I had one hell of a good time.

This thematically uninteresting story is coming to an end.

My husband, who has been out of work for many months, was offered a job by a business acquaintance. The job is in the suburbs of Chicago, and he is there now. In a month and a half, the children and I will follow. A hungry fish has to take the bait, even if it knows what lies ahead.

And my emotions roil. After having this amount of support, I can’t imagine who I’ll be without it. I can’t imagine singing again, or having a voice. I can’t imagine leading a group of any kind; indeed, at this point, I can’t imagine leaving the house or meeting anyone or doing much of anything. I can’t imagine wanting to. I don’t want to love another city or any more people for a while. And that thought, that I might not want to feel anything for a while, makes me sad in itself.

But I try to remind myself that we, as a species, are marvelously adaptable. It’s OK to feel sad, and it’s OK to feel numb and celebrate a victory in surviving each day. And it will be OK to be ready to feel something more than numb -- to, just maybe, find something to love about Chicagoland. Just when the sun seems at its harshest, I’ll feel water around me again. I hope.