Almost There
This morning, as I passed the school security guard with my daughter’s scooter in hand—as I do every weekday—he smiled and said, “You’re almost there.” We got to talking, and I shared a little update on our house, and how much we’re looking forward to going home. He paused, then said, “You should write memoirs about this time.”
It stuck with me.
Truthfully, I wish I had started journaling months ago—when this season of displacement first began. It’s been full of challenges and unexpected beauty. But like many busy moms, I never found the time. Maybe this blog can be my journal. Maybe this is my start.
Last week, we found a little pocket of light in our day—literally and figuratively. During one of Lucky’s evening walks, we passed a small, overgrown alley around the block. The sun had just dipped, but the light was still soft and quiet. We ran back to grab the camera and I captured the above sweet moment with Jemma and Lucky. It reminded me that even in unfamiliar places, beauty is still around the corner—sometimes literally.
Jemma has had the hardest time through all of this—she’s been very homesick, full of new fears and often doesn’t want to leave my side. Mornings had been tough, and bedtimes tougher. We found that riding her scooter to school everyday helps (I'll have to share the humorous story of how this started another time). She bravely hops on her scooter each morning now, and I trail behind on foot, carrying the scooter home after drop-off. It’s become a small ritual that means more to me than I can express. I’ve decided one of my photo goals before we move back is to capture her on that scooter, riding toward school, facing the world.
Because even when it’s hard, we’re growing. Like she said the other night, as we walked home with Lucky, “One good thing about staying here is that Lucky has learned and growed so much.”
We’re all learning and growing. And when we get home—we’ll be different, stronger versions of ourselves.
Low-light settings for the above image: 1/320, f 4.0, ISO 1600
