She used to speak to me about the dreams she had in the darkest nights. Dreams about leaving. She said, "At my deepest core, I know that I don't belong here. But I need to be here. I have a family to support." As a single mother, it was what she needed to do. It was a responsible choice.

I think that it is completely fine to make a decision about staying because you have your two young girls who are relying on you. I get that. I really do. And: it is important to also make sure that you are listening to the part of you that deeply longs for something else. It is possible to carry two voices at the same time and it is important to acknowledge the whisper of the night. Listening and speaking aloud the soft voice, saying emphatically each day, "I am leaving Pacific Bell. It is just a matter of Right Timing." In this way, we are granting precious air time to the voice of the artist, the coach, the poet, the painter, the school bus driver, the writer. It is like saying, "I hear you." And in the acknowledgement, the voice rests. She heard me. We're leaving. She's looking out for when.

I have been studying with Natalie Goldberg over these last few years and I remember a story that she once told us about needing money as a young writer so she taught grade school. It was a challenging time in her life and every day she would head into a disruptive class of youngsters. And each day, at least once, she would escape to the washroom, stare into the mirror with both hands clutching either side of the sink, and look deep into her own eyes stating unequivocally, "I promise that I will get you out of here."

She was listening. And she was taking action; it was just a matter of timing.

It is fine to hold both stances: I'm leaving (I promise) and I am staying (watching awake and alert for Right Action and Right Timing). In our dual world, it seems like we can only hold one of these at a time. No. They can walk hand in hand.

I'm leaving.
And I am awake and watching as I stay.

You can say it.
It's okay.

© Joanne Hunt

"There came a time
when the risk to remain
in the bud
was more painful
than the risk it took
to blossom."

Anais Nin (1903 - 1977)