Change is sneaky

It’s Sunday morning and I’m drinking instant coffee instead of espresso from the fancy machine. I can’t make the good stuff because I’m out of beans. And though I haven’t woken up in the wild lately (which I feel a tad guilty about) I remembered the stash of caffeinated powder in my van. 

So, instead of pressing a button, I waited for water to boil. I had a minute to think about how change sometimes hits you between the eyes. But most of the time it just sneaks up on you. 

You notice, little by little, that things feel different. A week goes by without pickleball. Four o’clock comes and goes and the puppy is still alive without dinner. I haven’t written a blog in two months, though so much has happened since my last post.

I crossed the Atlantic for the first time since Covid, on a trip with a new beau. I transcended my scooter trauma and am having so much fun on two wheels that I bought an electric road bike. My car was stolen from the driveway and totaled in a high-speed chase. Last week, my live-at-home son signed a lease. He’ll soon be shacking up with the first true love of his life.

Thanks to the coffee mishap, ideas are percolating. So here’s what I’m thinking about change.

Change (like aging) beats the alternative. Whether we read the ancient philosophers, study science, or listen to the indie folk band Big Thief, the message is the same. Change. Like the wind. Like water. Like skin. If it weren’t for change, life would stop. Literally. And we’d all be dead. When you look at it that way, there’s just no use case for stasis.

Change is neither good nor bad. It just is. And yet, we rush to judge difference (of all kinds) harshly, rather than just accept it. There should be no shame in accepting a boost on the uphill—and yet I feel sheepish. Am I any less adventurous if I sleep fewer nights in the van? What if I can learn more by exploring closer to home. Ugh! See! There I go again! Assigning values—less vs. more; okay not okay—to things that can’t and shouldn’t be measured.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. I never took French in school, but those cheeky philosophers sure know their stuff: Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. Maybe—in the grand scheme of things—change isn’t even the thing to worry about. The thing to worry about is us. Because wherever we go, there we are.

This year my son and I celebrated “Mother’s Day on Father’s Day” because I was in Italy in May. Not far from our home in Denver, there’s a mountain I’ve never climbed and he wanted to ride it. There’s a brand new Bianchi at the foot of my bed, and I’m feeling brave.

Charge!