Becoming a guest at my own party

It was a better idea than I had imagined.

Ten years ago, I was walking my dog down my street, smiling at each house, thinking how I liked every single person on my block.

Imagine, a street where everyone likes everyone!

Then I realized that wasn’t really the case.

I was the only one who knew everyone.

I was living Middle Child 2.0, being the glue that kept this street together.

The unofficial captain.

“Call Daryn,” was the usual reply when someone had a question.

I decided neighbors needed to know neighbors, so I set out to have the first block party for our street.

It was a hit! We gathered each fall for the next several years.

If I look back, I can see my grasp loosening on what was my party, my block.

Other neighbors moved in. I started consulting them for their calendars. I got married. My house got crowded and dumpy. I stopped offering this house up as a hosting site. Still I was the organizer and ringleader.

Of course, there was no block party last year.

This year, Husband and I have spent most of our time at the remote coastal marsh house more than four hours away.

Going through the stack of our accumulated mail, I found it.

An invitation to this year’s block party.

“Really hope you can make it!” one of the neighbors scribbled.

In my absence, two of the neighbors had taken the lead in getting this tradition back on track.

It’s exactly what they should’ve done.

Still, there was a little ping in my heart.

“I’m going to be a guest at my own party,” I thought.

Do you know the feeling, Dear Reader?

Of something you’ve loved and nurtured moving on without you?

My college roommate helped me get some perspective. She has long defined herself as a middle school teacher. That school has been her everything. And yet, just this week she shared, “I’m starting to see myself separate from this place.”

“The people I’ve shared it with have moved on,” she explained. The things I came there to do more than 30 years ago, I’ve accomplished.”

I kept that in mind as I went to the block party last night.

Visiting with neighbors who now have tight bonds, hearing the new hostess announce, “Everyone make sure I have your current email address so that I can keep us connected.”

It’s quite possible the things I came to this street to do a lifetime ago, I’ve done.

I thought of the coastal marsh home that is begging to be our full-time residence.

It lessened the sting.

As I tried on the idea of this being someone else’s party, I spied a group of lingering neighbors who had no intention of leaving soon.

I was tired and ready for bed. I said good night, because I could. After all, I wasn’t the host.

Letting go might be a better idea than I ever imagined.