Cheri, in a comment to an earlier post, spoke of her sadness at leaving leaving the home she loves, along with its coyotes and wildebeests.
I've thought of this several times, each time feeling a profound sadness, the intensity of which seems somewhat stronger than one might normally expect when ruminating on the domestic arrangements of a person one hasn't met in person.
It isn't an abnormal response. I, too, love my home. We have no beasties here -- at least not the wild kind -- but my neighborhood has it's own interesting creatures. (Have I mentioned that the next President of the United States lives on the corner?)
I can't imagine having to leave my home. I can't imagine having to leave my friends. I can't imagine having to leave my history here. It would be heartbreaking.
On further reflection, though, I CAN imagine. I can.
Our synagogue -- which, along with President Obama, is also on the corner -- has been a central place in our lives. We bought our home because it was 200 ft. from the synagogue. Back in the day, we were there three and four days a week. It was the hub of our religious and social lives. We made many, many friends there, ad we learned and laughed and cried and grew there. I can still remember when Norbert would call out "My Temple!" ever time we drove past it. (Which, given its proximity, was often.) We were blessed with Rabbis who became like family to us.
Both Rabbis were treated badly by a small but powerful clique within the synagogue. These spiteful, rigid, soulless people did everything they could to destroy our Rabbis, one after another. After six years, the second of our Rabbi's has left the synagogue. And so have we. I am profoundly sad.
So Cheri, please accept my condolences at having to leave a place you love. I understand. I wish there was something I could say or do to make the sadness go away.
The only thing I CAN say it that, in times of sadness, I always find myself looking to the psalms for solace. "Tears may tarry for the night, but joy commeth in the morning."