Many months later, I called my priest. (We go to an Episcopal church and I think the official name is vicar, but anyways, the head guy at my church.) I told him I was unable to feel close to God because I spent all of my time--every single day--wrecked about leaving Truman. I had been back at work for over a year, but I lived in the past, considering and reconsidering my decision.He met me for lunch. I poured my heart out. I cried in my soup. I explained to him that while my body was doing important work, my mind was living in a different dimension. I had been agonizing for many months. More than I’d like to admit.
He said a lot of things. But the most important thing he said was:
Burn the bridge.
(Wuh?)Cross the bridge, then burn the bridge.
I left our lunch together and went back to work. I felt the same. I thought a lot about the bridge.
My mind back at the bridge. My body miles up the trail.
And all the while, my baby turned into a boy. And he needed me to play fireman. He needed me to set up his art supplies. He needed snuggles and books and trips to the zoo.
He needed me to burn the bridge.And then somewhere between driving him to daycare and making pancakes in the shape of dinosaurs, I forgot about the bridge. I didn't burn the bridge. There is no momentous turning point. No catharsis. I just kept moving forward, with all of my unfinished business as a person totally exposed.
And all of a sudden I was too far from the bridge to worry about it anymore.