The Tipping Point

Several people asked me over the weekend how long I had been back in Georgia. The first time, I looked to the left, calculating in some empty space above my head. "Almost seven months," I said. And then I said it again and again. Oh, wow, I thought, almost seven months.

After a few times, it occurred to me that this is a tipping point. No matter what, this year will be one in which I spent the majority of the year in Georgia. It can no longer be a North Carolina year. As though some proverbial scoring has been tallied, I realized that I'm mostly Georgian now and less of a Carolinian. And I'm not sure how I feel about this shift in the balance of things...this dive toward more of one and less of the other. It's an odd feeling, particularly because this time last year, I was announcing The Big Move to my family. And that alternately feels like yesterday and years ago. It was a tipping point then, to move forward with something I had been thinking about, and, now, it is that uncertain feeling of the slightest movement working in concert with gravity to pull me in another direction.