Breathe in for luck

Relief.  For the last couple of weeks, this immense feeling of relief has built inside me (can relief build?).  I didn't realise what it was, until today.  It was just a vague happiness that occasionally bubbled over into random laughter and puzzled people around me ("Why are you so happy today?").

I just don't have to worry any more.   I'm so over worrying, about Joe finding a job, about finding a house to live in, about the dog having enough space, about the cat and dog being okay with the move, about finding somewhere to stay before Joe could move over, about the drive over, about my job here, about getting to work, about saying goodbye to people, about people's expectations of us returning to Adelaide for Christmas or other events, about making friends, about beinig pressured into buying a house, about whether or not to have kids, about money, about what other people think.  All these things I've been worried about in some way for the six months, and now that they're out of the way - well imagine the relief.  I have so much more space in my mind without those things buzzing around in there, so much more energy.

I can take the time to really enjoy everything about this new life, new city, new home.  And I am loving it - everything, from the busy streets and highways in town, to the view from my building at work, running between platforms to change trains, the bridges, the restaurants and bars, the parks, the funny suburb names, the shops (the clothes! the shoes!!!), there is so much that people are so used to, that I'm seeing with bright new eyes and really appreciating.  There hasn't been a single day when I've thought it was a bad idea to move, or wondered if we've done the right thing.

Where we live plays a big part in this as well.  If we'd moved to a boring suburb, way out of town, even the equivalent of where we lived in Adelaide, I can't imagine I'd be enjoying it half as much.  But Newtown is busy, vibrant, alternative, it has great places to eat and a main street that is never quiet.  There's no equivalent in Adelaide, so I really feel like I've made a huge move. I understand how people who have lived in Sydney their whole lives could be sick of it, but for now, it suits me just fine.

I slap the water and watch the fish dance to the ripples of us

So much of life is lived and shared in little bits and pieces.  How do we choose what to tell people and what to keep to ourselves?  There seems to be some invisible line, some kind of barrier where we close up and keep it all inside, but who can really say where to draw the line? 

Making new friends, being in a different place, it seems like I'm constantly feeling out where these lines and barriers should be.  I teeter on the edge of telling people way too much information, and then to other people, I barely speak a word about what's inside.  Is it the people?  Is it the situations?  Maybe it's something to do with not knowing what the hell is going on and being scared to give the same answers over and over.  Yes, moving house soon, Yes very exciting, No husband doesn't have a job yet, He works in IT in a law firm, Yes loving Sydney, Yes rent is expensive.  Am I just a terrible person if I would prefer to shut up than say such boring answers to inane questions?

Then I go the other way entirely.  Sitting in someone's office talking about the dynamics of missing people, who you miss and when, whether I'm an awful person simply for being able to say goodbye to all my friends and family with 2 weeks notice of when I'm leaving.  This random intimacy, and why?  Does it go both ways?  In a way I think so, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm just a silly little girl voicing her thoughts to whoever she thinks will listen.

Moving interstate and spending 6 weeks away from my husband is definitely an unpredictable experience.  I've never felt such a mixture of independence, impatience for things to happen, of missing someone but throwing all that spare energy and time into work.  I'm looking forward to being settled, now the first hurdle of finding a new home is cleared, and we're lining up for the next three - packing up the house, saying goodbye, and the final drive over to Sydney.  But I'm apprehensive as well, about upcoming hurdles, and how we will re-integrate into each other's lives, lived separately now for so many weeks.  How will we fit in a small house, without the network of friends and family so close by?

I like to live by the general rule that everything works out okay in the end.  So even considering these things is irrelevant.  But you know I worry, and never about things that matter.  Just watch.  In 2 weeks time, we'll be perfectly fine, and nobody will ever know that I sat here, wondering if the nicest person in the world (face it, have you met Joe?) will still really like me, 6 weeks on.

If I told you that I knew about the sun and the moon, I'd be untrue.

I think I'm beginning to finally come to terms with something.

I'm a science person.

I'm good with numbers and facts and processes and rules.  I'm good at dissecting things, solving problems, and working quietly until it's done.  I'm rational (mostly) and can (again, mostly) step back and look at things from other people's points of view.

And this is why I will never be an artist. 

I was fine learning to play piano, until I had to do different things with each hand (is that called syncoupation? Someone told me that once but I've always been unsure).  I could follow the notes - or, more accurately, I would memorise the notes (as A, B, C, D, etc), but I could never get two hands to do two notes or chords at the same time.  I think this has something to do with my 8-year-old brain not being able to memorise two sets of notes, one for each hand.

The entire concept of making music is foreign to me.  How can you imagine how it will sound?  I can't even get my voice to sound like it should.  Seriously, I listen to music, sing along, and my voice is completely wrong.  For every song.  Ever written. 

But musicians, composers, most of the people I know - you all do this so magically!  I imagine that you see the world as flowing notes, with a constant background of new sounds, sometimes flowing smoothly behind your thoughts, other times crashing to the surface so you can think of nothing else but getting it down somehow, grabbing the sounds, teasing them out of your mind using any instrument you have nearby - even if it's a tune hummed furtively in the middle of the night, in a quiet corner of the house, into your own voicemail so you remember to listen to it later.  How brilliant life must be, like that. 

Music entrances me, at times.  But I can't make it, any more than I can make a cat, or a tree, or a planet.  It's a foreign beauty to be admired, and touched, and obsessed over, but never really understood. 

I've been counting on the wrong things, to make life feel alright

I had assumed that the next step was to have a baby.

Basically, I need something to look forward to and to occupy my time.  Knitting jumpers is only interesting in short bursts, I've never had huge career aspirations, and I don't have any artistic or musical talent.  Recently married, fairly financially stable, prime baby-having age, sure this seems like the right next step.

I mean, it's hormones, yes?  Every time I think of having a child (not giving birth, that is still mystical/revolting/to be glossed over), I feel like it's a great plan.  Like I was born to be a mother.  I love cooking and being domestic!  I can knit tiny jumpers, sew tiny quilts! Then, when the child is older, I can be a cool mum who knows how to make costumes for parties and cakes for bake sales.  Maybe I could be on the PTA.  Who knows?  All I am fairly sure of is that I would be awesome at it.  Maybe not all of it, but that's why there are Dads, because they fill in the gap where Mums aren't so great at things.

So for the last few months, it has been normal to categorise and then imagine future events as either "Pregnant" or "Mum".
For example:

• Next graduation (work) = Pregnant.  Bugger, have to find a nice maternity dress.
• Next christmas = Mum.  No, wait, Pregnant.  Ok, can expect baby presents.
• Next birthday = Mum. Nobody will care, the baby will be new and it'll be all about him/her.
• Next holiday = Mum. Ooh taking a baby on a plane?  Hopefully it's well behaved.
• Next Christmas party = Pregnant.
• Buying a house = Mum.
• Moving house = Mum.
• Next Oktoberfest party = Pregnant.

It's basically just the way I think now.

But what if there's another option?  Something that shifts my view of what's next?  Something that would occupy me and not require me to short-term lease my insides to a small, needy human being?  I think something may have come up. 

Maybe I can stop thinking about stretchy pants.

For now, anyway...