Out with the tide

This is it. Our last night in Kitsilano, our lovely neighbourhood by the beach. Tomorrow the movers will arrive and start loading our boxes into their truck to be hauled off and deposited at our new life. Our new life, as if we're off to conquer some new world.  As if it should be capitalized. Our New Life.

I must admit, though, that this doesn't seem real. Oh sure, there's plenty of physical evidence around me should I choose to look at the towers of boxes rising up like waves on all sides of me, ready to crash down on my head and drag me under.  In fact, I've filled and stacked a good deal of these boxes, carefully wedging in the jars of dried beans and rice next to the crackers and dry pasta so that nothing shifts around during transport.  I've debated over the wisdom of packing lampshades and towels together, wine glasses and plastic plates. So yes, I know that we are leaving here. 

But it still doesn't feel real. In fact, I have a hard time envisioning life after Tuesday, July 15. That's when this tide that we're riding will roll up to our house and leave us there in the driveway, stranded on dry ground.  That's when we will be faced with our boxes of flotsam. That's when we will have to reconcile all of our familiar belongings with our new, unfamiliar space.  And, I wonder, at what point will we realize what we've done, that we've landed on these shores and there is no going back? Will we have regrets? And if we do, will we be able to admit it to ourselves?

Big questions, but perhaps these are just momentary jitters, to be expected before tsunami-magnitude change. Truthfully, I know that we are ready for this and that in the long run, this will be a good change. But until that 'long run' kicks in, if I see a rat treading those waters beside me, I can't guarantee that I won't be checking out the ferry schedule for the next boat back to Vancouver.