on coming home

view of the Akershus Fortress and the Oslo fjord

I've been home for five days now, after a three-week journey through northern Europe. I wrote a brief reflection on the trip as I sat in JFK before the final leg of the trip home, before the vacation had worn off and the jet lag had set in. I'd like to share it, and some more pictures, here.

Chatting with the Postmasters

I had the pleasure of speaking with Audrey and Lacy of The Postmasters Podcast about writing, running, and writers' workshops. Our conversation was a bit of a kick in my own pants to get back to my neglected novel. If you know me or read this blog, you know I've been in a state of transition lately. I'm so ready to dive back into my writing.

Subscribe to this podcast on iTunes, or check out their website. The episode featuring yours truly airs December 2. In the meantime, catch up on all the other episodes to date. You won't be disappointed!

On traveling light

It began a month ago with three large metal storage cubes...

We filled two of them and gave away or sold the rest rather than fill the third.

We packed a suitcase each and put three cats in the back seat and drove out of Georgia...

When all you keep with you is whatever you call family and a suitcase of clothes, you tend to be able to see more of life.

A month later and I'm still wearing the same five or six outfits I packed in the suitcase (washed, thankfully). A month later and we're still living with our brother and sister-in-law. We're sharing meals and taking turns cooking and cleaning.

Even though we will move into our own Seattle apartment this weekend, I'm reminded that the grandest experiences in life can occur when we are owned by fewer possessions. For this past month, we've had access to only a trunkful of our stuff, and I predict that when we open those metal storage cubes and move into our 800sqft apartment, we'll find ways to free ourselves of more stuff...

...So there's room for life to happen.

westward bound

It feels like a secret I've been keeping too long.

Four years ago, on a trip through California, we fell in love with the western half of the United States. Each year since, we vacationed in Utah, Arizona, California again, Washington and Oregon, and each time we've told each other we hoped to live closer to these amazing places someday.

In two weeks, my friends. Two weeks. I will call Seattle my new home.

on Lake Union

People ask why. Why would we leave our house and the friends we have in Georgia? Why would we leave our jobs here? (We will do essentially the same work remotely for the time being.) Why would we change almost everything in our lives from the past eight years when we don't have to?

Because we can. Because why not? Because the way has been paved with grace and we have taken one step at a time in that direction and will continue to do so. Because the seed that was planted long long ago has begun to send a green shoot out of the ground and lean toward that light.

North Cascades National Park

It still hurts to leave. I've been all excitement and finally and this is happening, until about a week and a half ago. I cleaned off my desk at work and said a few goodbyes, made a weekend trip to visit some writing friends in Tennessee, and then began the following week camping with another writing friend on the Georgia/South Carolina border. I will go back to the office for a luncheon party where I'll get to hug everyone one more time. We've packed our days with bittersweet meals and outings with dear ones from church and work, trying our best to say "see you later," and not "goodbye." We make promises that we will be back.

somewhere outside of Lincolnton, GA

Despite my best efforts, I will be leaving part of my heart in the American Southeast. I've grown to love the trees and the soil, the sun, the drawls, the potlucks, the back roads. But our hearts are infinite things, if we allow them to be.

alone

When my uncle died in 2006.

When I started my low-residency MFA program in 2010 and every six months for the next two years.

When I drove to Kentucky for the Hindman Appalachian Writers Workshop last July.

my bunk in the Hindman dorm

These are the times (not many but there will be more) that I've traveled alone. Gone through security alone. Carried luggage alone. Navigated streets alone. Stopped for gas alone. Woke up in a different bed alone. And alone means so many different things. In the case of Hindman, I had three roommates plus, but that first night I was still alone.

Each time I've traveled alone has been a gift to me in ways I've taken for granted. Each trip has added something to my life, layer upon layer. To walk through unknown environments, among strangers, has filled me with a sense of my own self and my own strength. I have to be present to every moment; no one else is taking care of the details for me. I am both fully responsible for myself and like a child in the world, seeing everything for the first time.

When I get wherever I'm going, if there's no familiar face waiting, it's up to me to make connections and be the friend I hope to find. As a shy person and an introvert, this draws out skills I don't use when I'm around the same people I see every day, every week. Traveling alone takes away my social and conversational fall-back plan (Andrew), and I am not one to retreat from a challenge. I say hi, I ask the dreaded small-talk questions: i.e. "Where are you from?" I make awkward conversation for a minute and eventually, almost every time, chit chat turns into something better, warmer, more personal. By the end of a week, I have friends I'm crying at the thought of saying goodbye to. Friends I can't wait to see again.

Hindman 2013

Lesley 2011

Traveling alone reminds me (1) that I'm not lost in the world, (2) that the secret to being liked is to like people, and (3) that I have whatever it takes for whatever the journey.

skyline

purview of the Boston AWP conference 

I love Boston. I love it even better in the snow. Socked in, hushed, humbled, warmer inside than out. Filled with 12,000 writers from all over the world. We took over the city, or at least our corner of it, leaking out of the convention center and dashing into restaurants and bars. Talking shop. Talking life. Talking horizons.

phantom pain

Friday was the first day of the first MFA residency I will not be attending since January, 2010. Every residency started on a Friday, each January and June. Friday was the day I normally flew up and reunited with friends like long-lost family. Friday was the meet & greet with new students. Friday was the day we all attended the welcome reception with Steven's announcements and the inevitable call to Jana or Janet for help.

Last Friday I felt the phantom pain of not traveling, of not hugging and laughing and going out for dinner and drinks.

For those who don't know, I graduated from a low-residency MFA program this past January. Prior to that, every six months I traveled to Cambridge, MA, to attend a 10-day residency at the campus of my school.

This past Friday, at the time I normally would have been landing at BOS, I met a friend at Starbucks here in Georgia. Ever the people-watcher, I couldn't keep my attention only at my table, and I watched/listened to two guys across the patio who were clearly from Boston, hanging out in my small Georgia town. They had the unmistakable accents, and one of them wore a Fenway t-shirt. Universe! Must you rub it in?

I'm sure I'm not the first or only graduate of a low-residency program to feel this way. This is not anything special. But I can't not talk about how I miss the camaraderie, the creative and intellectual stimulation, the conversations over dinner & over drinks later, hearing other writers' work & learning from the way they think about their work. Sharing life.

I miss you, A, M, L, M, E, S, R, S, S, L, ... Can I just say, I miss you Lesley posse?