On Leaving

And all the feelings that come with it

Has your life ever flashed before your eyes? I don’t mean a purposeful walk down memory lane. I mean a full-on involuntary episode.

It has never happened to me… until two days ago.

There was no life-threatening situation, but I did receive a staggering wave of powerful mental imagery. I’ll share why and what I saw. But first…

This newsletter has a new name. Please don’t relegate me to the spam folder. AND…

Chinatown Troubadour: A True Story had its first birthday last month. And while I vowed in this TEDx talk to always be looking forward creatively, I’m writing an additional epilogue for it. It’s not long, but there is just a little more to the story.

Paid subscribers will get a first look.

I’ll keep this relatively short today.

At some point, the vast majority of us sell the family home, but it hits everyone a little differently. These last few months, I’ve found out how it hits me. Because after 42 years, my parents sold their house. They closed yesterday.

The home in which I was raised is a small mid-century modern split-level in a forest preserve community. And now it’s ready for its next chapter, even if we may not feel completely the same way.

My folks are relocating full-time to a condo just minutes from where I live now. They’ve owned that for more than a decade, so this move isn’t into the unknown. It’s just a downsize.

I was doing fine until I found myself at the end of our driveway on Thursday. A caseless Gibson acoustic guitar rested in my arms, wrapped in two blankets, destined for a three-plus-hour car ride in my back seat.

Maybe it was the feeling of care as I gently hugged the swaddled item like a firefighter rescuing a child from burning chaos, but something inside me suddenly triggered.

A river of images raged into my head. There were parties, Christmases, cousin hangs, early childhood friends, hiding places, trees being climbed, high school friends, college buddy weekends, rock band rehearsals, bike rides, etc.

Mind you, this wasn’t a moment of reflection. This was an unwillful invasion of imagery. It was vivid to the point of blinding.

I asked myself, wow, is this what it’s like to have your life flash before your eyes? I turned and looked at the house. For the first time in the months-long moving process, I got choked up.

Upon further reflection, I’ve been processing something for the last few months that I never had the capacity, maturity, and basic space to process when I actually moved out of this house when I was 18. But that’s not a bad thing. The chaos of one’s late teens is enough to manage. At least, mine were. I can understand this change better now and digest it more completely. It’s feels more healthy this way.

Honestly, I didn’t want to write any of this down. Writing about these feelings means I’ll need to revisit them, explore them, and really face them. Who likes facing feelings head-on? I might be proud of the final written result, but is the journey worth it?

I’ve since discovered: not only is the journey worth it, it’s necessary.

My dad arrived at the end of the driveway with a trash can.

“You picked the right house for us,” I said, still gazing back.

He answered, “When we were house hunting, we looked at places in town that were very nice. Good neighborhoods. Sidewalks. The whole thing. But from the very first moment I saw this place, I was in love.”

For a moment, I lost my nerve. What are we doing here? I asked myself. The life my parents built in this house is complete, but doesn’t HAVE to be over. They’re both healthy. They have a community. And this place always has been, and is still, perfect. Is this REALLY the right move?

Of course it is. More memories are to be made. Grandkids will see to that. Until then, it will be plenty of visits to the storage unit, some ruthless donating, and tons of photo sorting in between soccer games, family dinners, and jam sessions.

A golden era is dawning.

But it doesn’t make closing this chapter any easier.

A few Sundays ago, I played piano in a farewell service at my parents’ church. That’s something I haven’t done in almost 30 years.

Paid subscribers will find a video of the piece I arranged below: a medley of songs my parent’s singing group, The Spirit of the Times, performed in the 70s, 80s, and 90s.

I’m playing it on the 116-year-old piano that belonged to my grandparents. It’s the one I learned on (and the one that drove the bus during many a sing-along for 42 years in my parents’ house) before finding its new home in my sun room.