I'm at the beginning of my third start over in life. Your words ring so true. I've planted trees at nearly every place I've lived over the years and have had to leave for many reasons. I still can go immediately back to the feelings of those times by recalling the times spent with the trees. Your writing is beautiful and timely for the parts of my heart that long to partake in those moments that are so far past. Thank you for sharing 💚
I know how you feel. There's just something special about planting a tree. I especially liked the time I planted 3 pecan trees. I was young back then and I was thinking it's going to take a long long time to grow and produce pecans. I anticipated hope for the future. I think that is the thing we aspire to when planting trees. Have you ever had feelings like that?
Leaving my 30 yr. career wasn't hard at the moment but then figuring out who I was without it was surprisingly gut wrenching. I didn't want to take that part of me onto the next journey. Getting to the person I am without all of the distractions, well I'm still doing that.
"Breaking up is hard to do" as an old Neil Sataka song goes. But it's true whether in marriage or a 30 year career. I'm guessing you were married to that career and you beckoned to every call. Starting over is not easy for anyone, but once you get over being uncomfortable to get comfortable...well that's when you start to appreciate all you've been through while building a "new you". I'm sure time will help you along the trail. I wish you the very best.
Peach trees can live for 50 years or more if they are sprayed, pruned and fed nutrients and watered during the drought years. How many people are there who don't like fresh peaches? I've never met one, but I hope somewhere back in the country of Arkansas, someone is caring for my beloved peach trees and enjoying the fruits of their labor.
Oh my goodness, yes, when we left Missouri, our home, 20 years ago for jobs and such, it was so hard. We tried to take it all with us. After 20 years in Kentucky, I thought it would be easy to leave to retire in Missouri. Here we are in Springfield, and I miss my Kentucky friends with a terrible heartache. I miss my flower beds and my little farm. It's so true that the memories are heavy.
This was a moving and beautiful read. The section on garden tools made me think about my father’s carpentry tools, lovingly maintained now by me, and my mother’s gardening and sewing tools that now serve me (though, to be frank, I really dislike sewing).
it's wonderful that you maintain his carpentry tools after he's gone. It show great respect for the life you've lived thus far. And also your mother's sewing tools. Since you don't like to sew, most people would have given them away. But again, I think you are showing great respect to your Mom's craft. I use to love to sew and I use to make my own clothes, but today I don't take the time for sewing, my mind is on Substack and learning to live my new life as simple as I know how.
That's how life works I think. Even though some people do live in the same spot their entire life span. Not me. I'm just too adventurous and I want to see the world before I die.
What a lovely reflection, Carol. I think one of the strangest things about moving abroad is discovering that you can grieve things without actually wanting your old life back.
For me, I don’t particularly miss America, and France feels like home now. But I sometimes miss the version of myself who knew exactly how everything worked.
I miss competence.
The guy who knew which store carried what, who could make a phone call without rehearsing it first, who understood every form handed to him, who had favorite restaurants and neighborhood routines and knew exactly what aisle something would be in. I left behind a career where I knew what I was doing, people who knew me, and a whole collection of tiny routines I never realized were part of my identity until they disappeared.
None of that fits into the usual category of “things you leave behind.” Nobody stands at the airport mourning the fact that they used to know how to call the dentist.
I think those invisible losses can sometimes be the strangest ones.
We build a new competence eventually. New routines. New favorite places. New people who know you. Every once in a while, you bump into the person you used to be and realize they stayed behind too.
Your peach trees are such a beautiful example of that. Sometimes what we miss isn’t really the thing at all. It’s who we were when it belonged to us.
I'm happy you found my substack too. I was curious when you said France feels like home now. I was wondering what part of America you lived in, what state? I live mostly in Louisiana, but I travel the SW U. S. I don't care anything about going East or traveling the Eastern Seaboard...it's just to many people and too expensive for me to enjoy it. At least, that's my mindset. Yes, I've left behind new beginnings, but I continue to push forward. I plan to live my life to the fullest while I still can and have the means and health to accompolish what I believe in. Thanks Le for your comments. I appreciate you.
Hi there. I’m a little from all over. Born in Iowa, lived in Minneapolis three times in life and most recently moved from there. Before that during COVID I was in Seattle and prior to that San Francisco and before that Cincinnati. So that all said I’m used to making new places home. France was a dream come true and I’ve felt settled here almost always. ❤️🇫🇷
That’s beautiful and sad yes, I’m close to 30 years teaching and preparing to leave is in my future I imagine it will be difficult and then what? I love that you shared the recipe so special
After 30 years of teaching and you leave, yes, there will be an adjustment, but that is the moment you start over again. I think you will find a new path and smile for all you've experienced thus far in your life. Change is always uncomfortable at first, but then it soon becomes the best choice we could've made. I wish good things for you ahead.
I haven't had to leave, as I still live in the house where my mother, I, and then my son grew up. I've had to clear out things that didn't make sense to keep any longer. I kept my father's and grandfather's tools since they're still useful for the house, but after four generations, it can't be a museum. That has been hard.
I’ve packed up whole lives more times than I care to count, and it’s never really the furniture or the clothes that undo you. It’s the tiny anchors nobody else would think to ask about — the garden, the view, the familiar route home, the version of yourself who belonged there.
I think that may be the bit people miss about “starting over”. You’re not only choosing what comes with you. You’re grieving what can’t.
And this line “Sometimes, memories are the heaviest things we own.” Absolutely beautiful.
I have a garden. A fine garden that I tend with love and attention. I talk to it and it wraps it's arms around me when life gets hard. The sun and smell. I am 71 yrs and the time is coming faster and faster when I know I will have to give it up. Every part of my soul does not want to ever leave. Hard.
Carol, this is beautiful. You have captured the particular grief of leaving not only a place, but a version of yourself that was rooted there — someone who tended, noticed, worried, waited, celebrated, and made meaning from ordinary seasons.
The peach trees were never simply trees, and the tools were never simply tools. They held your labor, your family’s history, your children’s growing years, your grandmother’s recipe, and the quiet companionship of a life you built with your own hands. That is why the leaving asks so much of us.
“Sometimes, memories are the heaviest things we own” is such a true and relatable line. Yet there is also something enduring in it. The orchard could not go with you, but the love, attention, and care you gave those trees became part of who you are. Thank you for putting words to the emotional packing that accompanies every meaningful new beginning.
I just realized we have more in common than I thought. I am not 76, I am 51, but I have just packed my things some 17 days ago, left a town in which I lived for 16 years, put my stuff into my white camper – and I am starting over...
I do not have trees I planted, but I have trees I've been speaking to every night on my walks with my doggo...
I love your writing. Keep going, you're not alone! Many hugs from the heart of Europe! ❤️❤️❤️
I'm at the beginning of my third start over in life. Your words ring so true. I've planted trees at nearly every place I've lived over the years and have had to leave for many reasons. I still can go immediately back to the feelings of those times by recalling the times spent with the trees. Your writing is beautiful and timely for the parts of my heart that long to partake in those moments that are so far past. Thank you for sharing 💚
Hi Roscoe,
I know how you feel. There's just something special about planting a tree. I especially liked the time I planted 3 pecan trees. I was young back then and I was thinking it's going to take a long long time to grow and produce pecans. I anticipated hope for the future. I think that is the thing we aspire to when planting trees. Have you ever had feelings like that?
Leaving my 30 yr. career wasn't hard at the moment but then figuring out who I was without it was surprisingly gut wrenching. I didn't want to take that part of me onto the next journey. Getting to the person I am without all of the distractions, well I'm still doing that.
Hi Dr. Clow,
"Breaking up is hard to do" as an old Neil Sataka song goes. But it's true whether in marriage or a 30 year career. I'm guessing you were married to that career and you beckoned to every call. Starting over is not easy for anyone, but once you get over being uncomfortable to get comfortable...well that's when you start to appreciate all you've been through while building a "new you". I'm sure time will help you along the trail. I wish you the very best.
I felt that 🥲 I understand.
The fact that you love, care for, and understand the gift of nature that came from those trees; speaks volumes about the beautiful heart you possess 💖
I believe those trees felt the loss of your presence too.
I pray that Life keeps them loved and cared for by others, forever.
Take good care 🙇🏼♀️🫶🏻
Hi Jay,
Peach trees can live for 50 years or more if they are sprayed, pruned and fed nutrients and watered during the drought years. How many people are there who don't like fresh peaches? I've never met one, but I hope somewhere back in the country of Arkansas, someone is caring for my beloved peach trees and enjoying the fruits of their labor.
Oh my goodness, yes, when we left Missouri, our home, 20 years ago for jobs and such, it was so hard. We tried to take it all with us. After 20 years in Kentucky, I thought it would be easy to leave to retire in Missouri. Here we are in Springfield, and I miss my Kentucky friends with a terrible heartache. I miss my flower beds and my little farm. It's so true that the memories are heavy.
I completely understand Kristin. We sometimes wish we could go back and make our choices differently.
This was a moving and beautiful read. The section on garden tools made me think about my father’s carpentry tools, lovingly maintained now by me, and my mother’s gardening and sewing tools that now serve me (though, to be frank, I really dislike sewing).
HI Tammy,
it's wonderful that you maintain his carpentry tools after he's gone. It show great respect for the life you've lived thus far. And also your mother's sewing tools. Since you don't like to sew, most people would have given them away. But again, I think you are showing great respect to your Mom's craft. I use to love to sew and I use to make my own clothes, but today I don't take the time for sewing, my mind is on Substack and learning to live my new life as simple as I know how.
Leaving what I considered home and the life I had built for 25 years. Leaving that season to enter the next….
That's how life works I think. Even though some people do live in the same spot their entire life span. Not me. I'm just too adventurous and I want to see the world before I die.
What a lovely reflection, Carol. I think one of the strangest things about moving abroad is discovering that you can grieve things without actually wanting your old life back.
For me, I don’t particularly miss America, and France feels like home now. But I sometimes miss the version of myself who knew exactly how everything worked.
I miss competence.
The guy who knew which store carried what, who could make a phone call without rehearsing it first, who understood every form handed to him, who had favorite restaurants and neighborhood routines and knew exactly what aisle something would be in. I left behind a career where I knew what I was doing, people who knew me, and a whole collection of tiny routines I never realized were part of my identity until they disappeared.
None of that fits into the usual category of “things you leave behind.” Nobody stands at the airport mourning the fact that they used to know how to call the dentist.
I think those invisible losses can sometimes be the strangest ones.
We build a new competence eventually. New routines. New favorite places. New people who know you. Every once in a while, you bump into the person you used to be and realize they stayed behind too.
Your peach trees are such a beautiful example of that. Sometimes what we miss isn’t really the thing at all. It’s who we were when it belonged to us.
Glad to have found your substack. :)
HI Le,
I'm happy you found my substack too. I was curious when you said France feels like home now. I was wondering what part of America you lived in, what state? I live mostly in Louisiana, but I travel the SW U. S. I don't care anything about going East or traveling the Eastern Seaboard...it's just to many people and too expensive for me to enjoy it. At least, that's my mindset. Yes, I've left behind new beginnings, but I continue to push forward. I plan to live my life to the fullest while I still can and have the means and health to accompolish what I believe in. Thanks Le for your comments. I appreciate you.
Hi there. I’m a little from all over. Born in Iowa, lived in Minneapolis three times in life and most recently moved from there. Before that during COVID I was in Seattle and prior to that San Francisco and before that Cincinnati. So that all said I’m used to making new places home. France was a dream come true and I’ve felt settled here almost always. ❤️🇫🇷
That’s beautiful and sad yes, I’m close to 30 years teaching and preparing to leave is in my future I imagine it will be difficult and then what? I love that you shared the recipe so special
Hi Julie Ann,
After 30 years of teaching and you leave, yes, there will be an adjustment, but that is the moment you start over again. I think you will find a new path and smile for all you've experienced thus far in your life. Change is always uncomfortable at first, but then it soon becomes the best choice we could've made. I wish good things for you ahead.
So beautiful and so dear! I really relate to this piece of writing. Thank you for sharing it with us!
You're welcome Judi.
This is beautifully sad and touching🩷✨
I haven't had to leave, as I still live in the house where my mother, I, and then my son grew up. I've had to clear out things that didn't make sense to keep any longer. I kept my father's and grandfather's tools since they're still useful for the house, but after four generations, it can't be a museum. That has been hard.
Carol, this got me.
I’ve packed up whole lives more times than I care to count, and it’s never really the furniture or the clothes that undo you. It’s the tiny anchors nobody else would think to ask about — the garden, the view, the familiar route home, the version of yourself who belonged there.
I think that may be the bit people miss about “starting over”. You’re not only choosing what comes with you. You’re grieving what can’t.
And this line “Sometimes, memories are the heaviest things we own.” Absolutely beautiful.
Very glad I found you. 🍒
I have a garden. A fine garden that I tend with love and attention. I talk to it and it wraps it's arms around me when life gets hard. The sun and smell. I am 71 yrs and the time is coming faster and faster when I know I will have to give it up. Every part of my soul does not want to ever leave. Hard.
Carol, this is beautiful. You have captured the particular grief of leaving not only a place, but a version of yourself that was rooted there — someone who tended, noticed, worried, waited, celebrated, and made meaning from ordinary seasons.
The peach trees were never simply trees, and the tools were never simply tools. They held your labor, your family’s history, your children’s growing years, your grandmother’s recipe, and the quiet companionship of a life you built with your own hands. That is why the leaving asks so much of us.
“Sometimes, memories are the heaviest things we own” is such a true and relatable line. Yet there is also something enduring in it. The orchard could not go with you, but the love, attention, and care you gave those trees became part of who you are. Thank you for putting words to the emotional packing that accompanies every meaningful new beginning.
I just realized we have more in common than I thought. I am not 76, I am 51, but I have just packed my things some 17 days ago, left a town in which I lived for 16 years, put my stuff into my white camper – and I am starting over...
I do not have trees I planted, but I have trees I've been speaking to every night on my walks with my doggo...
I love your writing. Keep going, you're not alone! Many hugs from the heart of Europe! ❤️❤️❤️