Done with Hobbit Holes
A friend is uprooting from her home of decades and replanting miles and states away.
It’s the kind of move many people talk about, very few people do.
We sit by the fire one cold spring night. I ask, What advice would you give to someone wanting to make a similar change?
My friend thinks. She has a wide smile and wide open eyes.
As you’re finding your way, people will say things that get your juices running, she says. Pay attention to those.
I nod. For my friend, one of those people was an author who said wings won’t grow on solid ground. Leap. Realize your wingspan on the way back to earth.
By the fire, my friend and I are protected and safe. The juice runners, though, pull us out of the security of our Hobbit Hole. They ask something more of us, something we might not yet know we have.
Soon, my friend will pick New England blueberries for the last time. She will pack her bags. And then she will start her walk into an unknown world. She tells me she has no idea what it will look like. But she’s shining like only an uncaged spirit can.
Outside, I zip up my thick jacket and pull up my hood. Cold rain falls around us. My friend stands in her slim coat. She looks unconquerable.
She grins. I grin back. She’s done with Hobbit Holes. She’s living from her full wingspan now. And there may be no better security than that.
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