When the Wind Changes: A Reflection on Endings

In Disney’s beloved musical classic of eponymous title, Mary Poppins, perhaps the world’s most famous nanny, tells her charges (who want to know how long she’ll stay) that she’ll be leaving when the wind changes. When the wind changes. The words strike me as sad and wistful, yet piercingly true. Things on this side of heaven don’t last forever. In modern parlance, the words for me have become, “I’ll stay through taxes,” which is important to my boss who is a CPA. When tax season ends—these words strike me as far less poetical, but wistful, and sad, and true, nevertheless.

Yesterday at work a few of my tasks were assigned to someone else, and I wanted to protest, until I realized that this is part of leaving—and leaving is something I initiated, and something I must accept. My work will be portioned out over the next six weeks—to the housekeeper, the kids, the parents…perhaps a new nanny or personal assistant. This is part of leaving: becoming unnecessary.

As you can probably tell, I’m having a hard time with it.

Sean and I have begun to talk with our littlest housemates (the children of our friends, ages 4 and 2) about the fact that we’ll be moving, traveling, not living there anymore. When she saw a helicopter in the sky a few days ago, the four year old asked her mom, “Is that Sean and Carolyn?” It’s adorable, and it hurts like hell.

What makes it so hard is that we’re leaving things that we love. I’ve loved my job; I adore the kids I take care of; our housemates are dearer to us than we can say; our church community has been our rock for the past two years. I often wonder: How foolish are we to leave these things?

Two things have been helping me in this time of farewells and transition.

The first is a poem I found on the blog of a friend* of a friend….It reads:

The

world

is full

of good things.

You can't have them all.

Every glory comes at the cost

of another. Ours is the splendor of the lilies,

of grass and of dust. Revel in your bounded brilliance,

and the unending streams of light

you will never hold.

That there is

such good,

be

glad.

I actually hesitate to write after sharing this poem; its brevity aims straight at the heart of the matter and says what must be said perfectly: You can’t have them all—which, of course, is exactly what I want. I want my life in Southern California, I want to travel Europe with Sean and our family and friends, and I want to live a full life Northern California, too (not to mention the millions of other things I want on top of all that). I want it all, greedy human being that I am. 

The poem states the problem, yet also offers the solution to wanting it all: revel in your bounded brilliance. Limitations give shape and direction to our lives. They allow something with form and purpose to be created, rather than an ongoing blob of endless desire.

A long time ago, when I was going through a painful break-up, I read something by Amy Carmichael that would become in many ways a koan to lead me through life: In acceptance lieth peace. My most deeply peaceful moments have always come when I accept where I am, who I am, what has happened to me, etc. And so I am learning to accept my limitations with gratefulness rather than resentment.

Also, a very wise person recently told me that it’s okay to have seasons in life.  What a novel idea! The natural order is organized by seasons (albeit very mildly here in Los Angeles), why should our lives not be as well? I have great peace in being able to view the parts of my life as seasons that have purpose and beauty, but are not intended to last forever. There are things that last forever, thanks be to God, and I can stand on those as the seasons of my life progress, and I journey ever closer to the life of the world to come.

*Poem by Elena Johnston, whose poetry I highly recommend.