Today is my official for-reals-this-time departure to LA. As in no more of this what's-my-southwest-rewards-number-and-which-address-should-I-give-them stuff. As in I will only have one set of keys, one closet, and one bed.
Kind of weird. Well, you're probably thinking that sounds pretty normal considering my age no longer ends with a -teen and I'm married -- hardly a rolling stone with no direction home, or (if you would prefer a more contemporary melodramatic song reference) a plastic bag drifting through the wind. And you have a point. But you must consider the fact that I'm an Aquarius, the most free-spirited of signs (and who am I to fight the natural tendencies endowed upon me at birth by the moon in it's 11th house? See.). So for me, it's weird.
So here I am, packing the car again for the 374 miles south, and the truth is that while it will be nice to actually live with the person I married, and to actually know where my purse/shoes/necklace/passport/[insert any personal belonging here] is for the first time in three years, I'm still a little nervous. I’ve never been one to dwell on where I’ve been because I’ve always had something dazzling to look forward to (ok, "dazzling" is a relative term here, but you know how easily I am dazzled by the shiny and new). This time, there’s still the usual giddy anticipation that comes along with any new adventure for me (hi, I started this blog, right?), but there's something more. This time, there’s a sense of loss, a sense of grieving that wraps around my heart, tethers it to the Bay, and pulls at it when I think about leaving. It's a dull ache that pulses through my veins, a hushed sigh caught in the back of my throat, an unspoken "but" that trails the end of every one of my sentences.
I've been sitting with this silent pulling ache for a while now, at first trying to fix it, and now just trying to understand why it's here with me now, this time. And I think it’s because I feel invested here. I feel a sense of ownership over this place more than I ever have before. This is the place where I was a child, and the place where I dreamed of coming home to. This is the place where I built a friendship wreath out of a few familiar faces. This is the place where I turned a relationship into a marriage. This is the place where I discovered my career. This is the place where I grew up.
Kind of weird. Well, you're probably thinking that sounds pretty normal considering my age no longer ends with a -teen and I'm married -- hardly a rolling stone with no direction home, or (if you would prefer a more contemporary melodramatic song reference) a plastic bag drifting through the wind. And you have a point. But you must consider the fact that I'm an Aquarius, the most free-spirited of signs (and who am I to fight the natural tendencies endowed upon me at birth by the moon in it's 11th house? See.). So for me, it's weird.
So here I am, packing the car again for the 374 miles south, and the truth is that while it will be nice to actually live with the person I married, and to actually know where my purse/shoes/necklace/passport/[insert any personal belonging here] is for the first time in three years, I'm still a little nervous. I’ve never been one to dwell on where I’ve been because I’ve always had something dazzling to look forward to (ok, "dazzling" is a relative term here, but you know how easily I am dazzled by the shiny and new). This time, there’s still the usual giddy anticipation that comes along with any new adventure for me (hi, I started this blog, right?), but there's something more. This time, there’s a sense of loss, a sense of grieving that wraps around my heart, tethers it to the Bay, and pulls at it when I think about leaving. It's a dull ache that pulses through my veins, a hushed sigh caught in the back of my throat, an unspoken "but" that trails the end of every one of my sentences.
I've been sitting with this silent pulling ache for a while now, at first trying to fix it, and now just trying to understand why it's here with me now, this time. And I think it’s because I feel invested here. I feel a sense of ownership over this place more than I ever have before. This is the place where I was a child, and the place where I dreamed of coming home to. This is the place where I built a friendship wreath out of a few familiar faces. This is the place where I turned a relationship into a marriage. This is the place where I discovered my career. This is the place where I grew up.
The thing is, ownership is satisfying. It's comfortable; it's steady; it's easy. It's tempting. But I keep reminding myself that challenge is good. That after all of these "lasts" there will be "firsts," and firsts are better than any that come after. And that Newness is what keeps me motivated, and what fills the days with memories worth keeping.
It's hard to see past today, but I know I need to. So I'm taking a page out of Bill Clinton's book and making "Don't Stop [Thinking about Tomorrow]" the theme song to my life. With Fleetwood Mac as my soundtrack, I will go, and I will open myself and let this new life shape me and teach me and change me. And I will overcome this ache.
(But I’ll still miss this place like hell.)
It's hard to see past today, but I know I need to. So I'm taking a page out of Bill Clinton's book and making "Don't Stop [Thinking about Tomorrow]" the theme song to my life. With Fleetwood Mac as my soundtrack, I will go, and I will open myself and let this new life shape me and teach me and change me. And I will overcome this ache.
(But I’ll still miss this place like hell.)
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