Dealing with the inevitable change

I remember reading someone’s words that advised me to become a “student of change.”
I had to do some searching in order to give credit to the proper source for said advice. It turns out it was Anthony D’Angelo, of whom I have no recollection so I must have heard it third hand.
Mr. D’Angelo is involved in some sort of marketing industry so, of course, he has to say such things. But there is some truth in that statement.
Although we may want life to be a constant, it never is. The seasons change, the grass grows, the grass dies, and when we’re little, a year seems like an entire lifetime. Turns out it is not.
And when my grandmother told me the years gallop by when I was told I had to wait another year for my own pony, I was pretty sure she was leaning a little to the right of the truth.
Turns out she was right. The years do gallop by at breakneck speed when we so don’t want them to.
I’m at a place in life where change is imminent and I’m not sure if I should go right or left or straight ahead. I feel a bit like anything is possible and the thought is invigorating–even though unsettling, too.
All I need is my pen and a notebook, my faithful companions, “Gracie” and “Finnegan,” and I suppose I’m only limited by my imagination and bank account.
I remember resisting change with every cell of my being as a youngster. I didn’t want to start school. I didn’t want to go to high school. I really, really didn’t want to go to university. I wanted to stay on my precious farm forever.
I bargained with my father. I begged. I promised him free labour for life and still he insisted. But so it goes.
If we didn’t accept change as a given, we would never learn to walk or ride a bike or drive a car.
I watch my little 10-month-old grandson who believes he can walk even though he can’t. He lets go of the sofa and heads off in the direction he was aiming for and promptly crashes onto his face and laughs hysterically, as if his falling was totally unexpected and the fact that he couldn’t walk was absurd.
He pauses in his crawling to watch himself, or the child he is very fond of, in the mirror. He purrs at this reflection and smiles sweetly and laughs before he is on his way again. Standing. Thinking he can walk. Falling.
He’ll get it right one of these times and he most definitely will have a look on his face that says, “Told you so.”
I love his boldness and his fierce belief in himself. He doesn’t cry when he falls but instead winces and seems to be saying, “Gee, I didn’t see that coming.”
We can learn from Liam. We can learn a lot from Liam.
Each time we accept challenges, we are accepting change and we are evolving even if only slightly. I know you know all this.
Rather, I’m having a conversation with myself–spurring myself on to imagine something else while I cling to all that is familiar, comfortable, like old running shoes that my feet slide into effortlessly and settle into their grooves; my toes wiggling as if they have arrived home.