Chapter Stop

It's not often in life that you are aware of one chapter ending and another one beginning.

While most chapter stops are discernible only in retrospect, there are those times when the change is so momentous that it is impossible to miss the gravity of the transition.

This past weekend, my wife and I stayed in a small cabin outside of Crested Butte, Colorado. I wanted one last time to glory in the beauty of my home state before trading forested mountains for the urban jungle.

Hermiting ourselves away, we spent several days reclining on the porch, reading, hiking, talking beside the river, playing games and any other activity that fostered an attitude of contemplative relaxation. (I also spent several hours reviewing the new Apocalypse Now DVD. How apropos, I thought, as the film opened to the strains of The Doors singing, “This is the End.”)

This Friday--in mere hours, really--it truly will be the end as I bid Colorado goodbye.

Lately I've recognized "the end" in everything. Each day this week I've woken up and turned to my wife saying, “This is my last Tuesday” and so forth. This is my last movie at Kimball's art-house theater. This is my last cone of Colorado Cookies and Cream at Josh and John's ice cream parlor. This is my last cup of Pikes Perk coffee. This is my last stroll downtown. This is my last Eucharist at Grace and St. Stephens.

Everywhere I go, I've been trying to make a conscious effort to really soak in my surroundings, to experience everything on a hyper-visceral level.

Aside from the years spent in the Navy and away at college, I've lived in Colorado Springs for nearly three decades. And now I am leaving once again. The differance is, this move has the bitter-sweet sense of permanence. My future career will not steer me back this direction and though family still lives here, guaranteeing frequent visits, I do not foresee ever calling Colorado Springs home again.

And, of course, I've been contemplating the end of larger things.

“Those friends you have,” Shakespeare said, “grapple them unto your heart with hoops of steel.”

Breakfast, lunch and dinners these past weeks have been filled with final goodbyes. More than at any time in my life, I am dreading leaving, not a place, but a people. I have such rich friendships, such extraordinary mentors, such wonderful kindred souls that I am loathe to leave them. I want to encircle them all in real hoops of steel (steal?) and cart them off with me to New York City.

I realize that moving does not mean that those friendships will end. But they will, by necessity, alter in ways I do not wish to contemplate. And I also know that I will find people in New York who will fill that void and become as indispensable to me as my current friends. When I leave New York, this is a process I will have to go through all over again. It is the nature of things. But it doesn't make it any easier.

My dearest Colorado friends—and you know who you are—I will miss your fellowship, encouragement, admonition and wisdom more than I can possibly convey. You have spoken into my life, shaped me, and built me up in ways you cannot even realize. I am blessed and honored to have been encircled by your love and affections these past years and I will take the memories of those times with me wherever and however far I go.

Thank you...

...and goodbye.