Beyond Room 119


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Midnight runs

I remember that night so clearly. It was a perfect, North Carolina summer evening – warm enough to be outside with only a tank top and shorts, but not too humid so as to make breathing unbearable.

I was at a concert of an incredible musician with friends that I loved, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t appreciate it for more than a minute or two at a time before the intense waves of hurt and disappointment came crashing through and threatened to pull me under faster than a rough riptide. Earlier that evening, a good friend of mine did something that hurt me emotionally in a way that very few people have. I was deeply hurt and I was disappointment in myself for letting this person’s actions have that much sway over my emotions. Throughout the concert, I acted like I was paying attention and enjoying the show, while inwardly I vacillated between wanting to throw dishes at a wall and curl up on the uneven grass beneath my feet and just cry.

I wound up leaving the concern early and got home just before midnight. At this point, I was equal points seething at my friend and frustrated with myself. I can’t remember the last time before that I did a midnight run (college, maybe?), but the instant I got home, I started putting on my running shoes almost without even thinking. There was a four mile loop I often ran, and autopilot kicked in once I was outside, one foot moving in front of the other.

Truly, it was a beautiful night. The air had a tinge of briskness, the cicadas were playing their symphony, the trees were still a deep green above me with the stars twinkling through, and it was just me and the pavement. I remember wanting to stop and just break down a few times during that first mile – to stop and let the hurt and the pain overwhelm me, to beat myself up, to give up in general.

But I didn’t. I kept moving, kept running.

And then a funny thing started to happen. Just over a mile into it, my thoughts somehow started changing. I started to remember who I was, what I was worth, and what I wanted. I started to put the situation in perspective, and I realized that although I couldn’t change what had happened, I was able to decide how it would impact me and what I would do moving forward. And even before these new thoughts entered my consciousness, I started to feel stronger with every single step in a very tangible, measurable way.

People rarely ask me why I run. They often ask how long I’ve been running, how far I run now, or  if I’ve run a marathon. Those questions are easy and can be answered in just a few words.

When someone asks me why I run, I usually pause and assess why the person is asking. If I think they’re just making small talk, I give them a true answer, but perhaps one that is less personal. “I love having that time outdoors” or “It give me time to just be quiet and think” are some answers I’ve given that fall into this category.

if I gave someone the real answer, though, it would be so much longer and give so much more insight about who I am and how I work. I don’t think even this list is a complete answer, but since I need to go to bed at some point tonight, it’ll do for now.

I run to think. More often, I run to make time where my brain isn’t thinking at all.

I run to challenge myself.

I run to push the limits, and then push those new limits some more.

I run to work through problems and issues in my life.

I run because that runner’s high is real.

I run to form new friendships and deepen existing ones.

I run to beat my goals.

I run because it’s hard.

I run towards solutions.

I run to discover my strengths.

I run to grow.

I run to keep my sanity.

I run because it’s fun.

I run so that I can sleep at night.

I run not from emotional pain, but through it.

I run to appreciate all the small things in life.

I run to grow stronger.

I run to develop discipline, which then manifests itself in all areas of my life.

I run for me – to work through who I’ve been, to honestly assess who I am now, and to determine who I want to be.

I run for those who can’t.

I run to quiet my mind.

I run to find peace.

I run for freedom.

I run because I can.

I run because I love it.

I run to keep the rest of my life in perspective.

I run because it makes me the best me I can be.

After I finished my run that night last July, I laid back on the trunk of my car and looked up at the world. The stars shone more brightly, the trees smelled even more fresh, the cicadas sounded more lovely, and the world felt so brilliantly alive. I laid out there for a good while taking it all in, grateful not only to be able to run, but that such a simple act could remind me of my inner strength and encourage me be a better me.

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Touchstones

When you leave a place that was home for so long, it stands to reason that it takes a while to not be so painfully homesick. To some extent, as long as it’s still home in part of your heart, I’ve realized that you’ll always miss it at least a little bit. I think it’s similar to running injuries. Runners typically face two main types of injuries: acute and chronic. The acute injuries are the ones that sideline you for an undefined period of time. These are the broken bones, the torn ligaments, the things that hurt so much you can’t move because it knocks you down so hard. Then there are the more chronic injuries, such as shin splints, tendonitis, plantar fasciitis. These are the ones that you can still run on, but man, you feel that pain or tenderness in every step. Neither one is fun, and as runners, we manage each category differently.

In my recent experience, the same is true of homesickness. When I first moved, my homesickness was definitely of the acute variety. Nights spent with a roll of tissue paper were painfully common and there were times I just wanted to curl up in the fetal position and do nothing else. Somewhere along the way,  it shifted to the chronic condition. It certainly flares up at times, sometimes quite painfully, but the default is a deep, accepted longing. I have friends now, certainly, and I am immensely grateful to spend more time with my family. At the same time, though, that underlying feeling remains, more present at some moments than others.

I’ve realized that whenever I encounter something that reminds me of home, it warms my heart just a bit. Whether it was the fellow at the conference in San Diego wearing a UNC sweatshirt (how I’ve missed Carolina blue!), the lady at the beach with a Tar Heels hat, the random dude in downtown LA with an NC State sweatshirt, or the guy on my kickball team from Charlotte (a city that I’m not even that particularly fond of), each contact lifts my day. It’s similar to the way that whenever I saw a California license plate while living in North Carolina, I became irrationally happy.

I’ve come to realize that these touchstones are important. Good old Merriam Webster defines a touchstone as “a fundamental or quintessential part or feature.” And sure, that may be true. Certainly, any time I see something in a particular shade of blue, I instantly think of UNC Chapel Hill. But these touchstones are so much more than merely a part or feature. They are an arrow towards a chapter of our lives, an entire bank of memories, of a plethora of emotions, of communities and people that matter.

Touchstones. A reminder of who we were or where we come from. In a world where movement may be the only constant, we may have made homes and left pieces of our heart all over the world. We might have people we love three, five, or eight time zones away. When we leave those places and those people, we’re never the same as when we first arrived. Heraclitus, a Greek philosopher, once said, “No man ever steps  in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” The people with whom we surround ourselves have the power to transform who we are. When we leave what we know and those that became family, remembrances of these people or that which was once home can remind us of who we were at one point in time. These touchstones can serve as a tangible bridge to a piece of our past and help us to move forward into the future.

It can be a tricky balance to remember and appreciate the past, live in the present, and look forward to the future, and those touchstones can serve a vital role in establishing that balance. Sometimes it may seem like an impossible task, but it’s one worth pursuing. As I used to tell my kiddos, “If it were easy, it’d be called kindergarten.”

It’s not kindergarten; this is life. So let’s get out there, and as one of them used to say back to me, let’s do this.


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Painting perils

I recently helped a friend paint a wall in his room. When he moved into the house a few months ago, he thought he wanted to change the color of his bedroom, so he painted samples of different colors onto his wall to try them out. It was a great idea, but it turned out that he liked the original color best, so he needed to paint that single wall the same color to cover up the other swatches.

Now, I’m always up for an adventure, so somehow I was easily shanghaied into this. I quickly learned it was quite the endeavor. Our first item of business was to go to the hardware store to get the tools he didn’t already have. I never knew there were different types of rollers for distinct surfaces or that there were different depths of rollers. As it turns out, not all walls are created equal.

Then came the preparation. The furniture was shifted to the opposite side of the room, squashed tighter than a game of Tetris. We carefully laid painter’s tape along the baseboards, the trim around both doors, the ceiling, and the opposing walls. We almost forgot to cover the air conditioning vent, the electrical outlets, and the light switch, but those too were eventually painstakingly covered. Then the drop cloth was shaken out and gently squashed it against the wall, taped in some areas so as to make sure the carpet was completely covered. Looking back, I think the preparation took longer than the actual painting.

At last we had reached the moment we had been waiting for: the painting itself. My friend opened the paint can that had been left in the garage before he moved in, poured it into the little painting pan thing, and the painting began. It was a fun process, but as I painted more and more of the wall, I realized it looked pretty uneven. In fact, it looked pretty terrible. After we finished the wall, there were splotches of dark paint right next to paint that seemed twelve shades lighter, alongside another swatch of dark wall. I didn’t want to say anything to my friend, but I was a bit concerned at how bad it looked. I knew the recently painted wall would look darker than the three other walls, but was it supposed to look that much darker?  I stepped back another few feet, my back against the wall, hoping that some distance might make it look cohesive.

Nope, no such luck.

We decided to meet up with some friends and give the wall some time to dry. It was probably a good idea to get away from the paint fumes, too, now that I think about it. As we hung out with our friends, I forgot all about the wall, only remembering from time to time when I looked down and saw green paint splotches on the back of my hands.

Eventually it was time to face the music. We wound up back at his house, and I don’t know about him, but I was holding my breath as he opened the door into his room. I haven’t painted in at least two decades, so I didn’t have enough of a sample size to know if the paint job would magically come together. We turned on the light, stepped back, and immediately breathed a sigh of relief. The wall looked absolutely perfect. The paint had dried evenly and the newly painted wall matched the other walls beautifully. A few days later after my friend had put all the furniture back where it was supposed to be and hung a few pictures, he let me know that he loved how the room looked.

I was thinking about this the other day and realized that’s kind of how life is, too. Sometimes we never know how (or even if) the different walls are going to come together and match. At times, we may feel like our lives are like the wall as it was drying: a mess, completely unorganized, and something that someone else is going to have to come and fix. We may feel like that poor wall looked at this point: a misfit that doesn’t belong.    

But the beauty of life is that where we see a period, it’s often a comma. Or heck, even a semicolon for some of those darker times that seem to last far too long. Regardless of the punctuation mark in use, what we think is the ending very rarely actually is. It took a little bit of faith, hope, the ability to step back, and some patience for us to come to see that finished wall as the beautiful thing it became. Yet too often, we fail to give ourselves the space for those things in our own lives.

I was reminded of this recently. As I was walking around campus one afternoon, I was delighted to discover that someone (or many someones) had chalked up campus with positive and uplifting messages. My favorite was, “After every sunset comes a sunrise.” I found it to be a beautiful reminder that no matter how dark this day may be, tomorrow brings a new day, full of hope, love, and new adventures to be had.

To me, the last half of 2018 felt very much like the process of painting that wall. I was preparing to make a change, getting ready for it, and then I made the change and it quickly felt a lot like how that poor wall looked: a complete and utter mistake that couldn’t be undone fast enough. During this time, an angel arrived in my life in the form of a new friend. Out of nowhere one day, she gave me a framed quotation by one of my favorite people, Bob Goff. It says, “Embrace uncertainty. Some of the most beautiful chapters in our lives won’t have a title until much later.”

Thinking about that gave me hope. Amidst all the unknown, I can stand firm in one known constant: the sun will rise tomorrow. And with that new sunrise comes another 24 hours with which I can continue to forge forward and trust that eventually, the walls will dry and those messy, unorganized chapters will each have a name.


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The art of solitude

I recently had a conversation with a friend about being alone and the struggles that this can bring. It’s a concept I’ve had to work through a couple of times in my life, and I think it’s one that is never fully put to bed for many of us.

I’ve learned that there is a distinct difference between loneliness and solitude. We experience loneliness when we feel completely and utterly alone. We might be in a crowd of people at Disneyland, but within, we feel like no one else bothers to see us. We might feel like we don’t matter, or that no one cares. Loneliness is often something we strive to avoid. We might plan nights out with friends or acquaintances, dinners with family, or binge watch the latest Netflix phenomenon with the intention of trying to erase feelings of loneliness.

Solitude is a much different experience. Solitude occurs when we embrace the silence and the experience of being by ourselves. Introverts may refer to it as their time to recharge, when they are simply present with themselves. Solitude can take on a number of forms- it might be meditation, a solo walk on the beach, enjoying a cup of tea at a coffee shop with a good book, working on a new chord on the guitar, and so on.

Solitude is one of many ways in which we can learn about ourselves. In a world full of chaos, news feeds, social media, and busyness, it can be easy not to let ourselves just be. As someone who is an internal processor (though I recognize not everyone works this way), I am very aware that I need solitude to process my thoughts, emotions, and whatever may be bothering me. Oftentimes I can recognize that I feel off in some way, and it isn’t until I retreat from the world that I figure out why and consequently, what to do about it.

I distinctly remember the first time I felt prolonged experiences of loneliness. I was a freshman in college, living in the dorms, and I didn’t know a single person who went to my school. My adjustment period was pretty rough, and it didn’t help that I had a tenuous family situation at the time. I tried all the right things- joining clubs, intramural teams (Ultimate Frisbee? Why not?), Greek life, choir, and more. I figured the only way to meet people was to put myself out there, so by golly, I did. And yet, nothing seemed to help. I struggled a lot, and the counselor I was seeing told me I had a mild case of depression, which naturally scared me even more. I didn’t want to be depressed! I wanted to have friends! To have fun! I wanted nothing more than to enjoy the “college experience” I kept hearing about.

I finally started having conversations with one of the campus ministers. He was a great guy who had seen it all and knew when to let me talk and when to nudge the conversation in a certain direction. I don’t really remember what we talked about, but I remember that I finally felt heard and my experience was normalized for the first time. Perhaps most importantly, he lent me a book, The Restless Heart by Ronald Rolheiser. In the book, Rolheiser talks about the different between solitude and loneliness and how we can use that struggle to grow in our spiritual life. To a seventeen year-old who was desperately searching for a way to both understand what I was feeling and figure out what to do about it, this book was worth more than gold, and it helped me to move forward in my college career.

There have certainly been other periods in my life when I’ve experienced intense loneliness. Teaching in rural North Carolina comes to mind, as does moving across the country away from many of my closest friends. There have been times when I’ve stopped talking about my experiences of loneliness to close friends because I felt like that was all I talked about and I was tired of beating the same drum over and over. None of these experiences have been fun in any way. In fact, they were pretty terrible. There have been some periods in my life that I think I kept Kleenex in business single-handedly. And yet, I wouldn’t be who I am today without them, and I would have missed out on so many important lessons that came from working through that pain.

I’ve learned that when shit hits the fan and you think there is no one else left on your team, you can choose to let God in or shut the door in his face. He loves to use the silence as his conduit, but it takes a willing listener to hear him.

I’ve learned that it’s in the times when we feel most alone that we find out who our truest friends are.

I’ve learned that from the forges of life can come true beauty and brilliance.

I’ve learned that no matter how bad it can get and how alone I might feel, after each sunset comes a new sunrise, ripe with the promise of a new day and new adventures to be had.

As I write this, I’m laying in the grass at a park that reminds me of my home in North Carolina, taking in the sunlight as the sun drops lower and lower in the sky. Four months ago, the very act of being here by myself in a city that felt so foreign, drab, and unwelcoming would have terrified me. And yet today, I’m basking in this time to myself. This opportunity to think through something that’s been in the back of my mind all day. This chance to pause, breathe, and hear God’s voice in the silence.

Perspective is everything.


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Intentionality

It’s been quite the thought experiment to start to unpack what I’ve learned from this most recent transition. Part of me thinks it’s too early to think about it and I need more time before I can look back, but a bigger part of me has already seen lessons that having been helping in getting adjusted to a new place now.

One thing that struck me, over and over again, as I said my goodbyes two months ago was how many people that I wish I had known better. There were far too many people that I genuinely liked and actually cared about connecting with, but I just hadn’t spent enough time with to develop our cursory friendship into something deeper.

These were the people that I saw at group events and always enjoyed catching up with, but never followed up on my thought of, “Hey, I want to grab coffee with them!” or “Dang, what a cool person- I want to have more of that conversation!”For some of these folks, these were the people whose schedules never intersected with mine- we were both fairly busy and the free time didn’t overlap enough to make it easy, and neither of us made the extra effort to reach out.  In other instances, these were the people I became friends with too late, in a sense – friendships that developed only during my last few months in town. Given time, some of those could have become much deeper, but I left before that could happen.

I had a “see you later” party before I left, and friends from all groups came- my church group, the running crew, the random group of girls I fell into, and more. It was special to see all my people come together and to watch the intersections. Friends from all levels were there – best friends who I’ll know forever, recent friends with more tenuous connections, and everyone in between. Seeing all these people together hit the point home for me: I had so many wonderful people in my life there, and I didn’t know many of them as well as I wished.

The second point that resonated with me during those last few weeks was that, for the most part, people are not told how valuable they are, that they are inherently worthy, and that they are pretty darn awesome. I was telling most of my friends how much I valued them, the beauty I saw within them, and how great they were because, hey, I was leaving! Who knew the next time I would see them again to remind them of these important things? I’m also a big believer that the only moment we have is this very one. The future is never guaranteed, so carpe diem, man, and just tell that person next to you how much you love them!

Now fast forward a few weeks to me trying to build connections and communities in a brand new place as an adult. Now, if you’ve ever restarted somewhere in your adult life, you know that it can be hard. Other people have lived there for a while and typically already have their social groups established. It can be daunting to be the odd man out and to try to nudge your way into the circle.  I’m well aware that this process will take a while, and I’m working on the whole “be patient” thing (easier said than done sometimes!). But I’ve realized that I’m learning from my experiences of just a few months ago.

As the newcomer, I quickly saw that people here already have their established social circles and full lives, as expected. Because of this, instead of re-inventing the wheel, I’ve decided to insert myself into them. In the last month or so, when I’ve met someone I liked (and I can usually get a good read on someone fairly quickly), there are two things I have been intentional about doing:

  1. Telling that person that I think they are pretty cool and I’d love to get to know them better
  2. Actually following up and reaching out to set something up

It’s exhausting, man. I like my own time to relax and recharge, and there are a number of solo activities I enjoy doing. I also have a pretty big family, and I’m basically doing the same thing with them right now too. (“Hey, bro, it’s been a while. Can I stop by for a bit/come over for dinner/play with the kids/find a time to connect?”) It’s been a challenge to expend all this energy while not quite yet finding how I want to balance all the pieces.

But I’ll tell you what: it’s important, and it’s worth the energy. In our world today, there is a strong lack of intentionality. We tend to go through life day by day, email by email, task by task, without being fully intentional with our actions. As a result, we often drift from our goals. We wonder why we aren’t getting any closer to these big dreams we have – a house, a life partner, a new promotion – without thinking through the steps it would take to get there. We wonder why so and so doesn’t reach out and invite us to invite us to that event or to spend time together without realizing we also have the power to reach out and nurture that connection.

Some people say it’s important to meet someone where they are, while others will preach that we must meet others halfway. I disagree with both viewpoints. If we want to live fully and love deeply, we need to put ourselves out there, regardless of what the people around us are doing.

If you wanted to build a shed in your backyard, you wouldn’t sit in the front yard and say, “I think I’ll wait for some carrier pigeons to drop me off some two-by-fours.” Similarly, you wouldn’t go to halfway to the hardware store and wait for the Home Depot dudes in neon orange vests to drive the cart full of supplies straight to you. No, you would make your shopping list, go to Home Depot, ask for help along the way, fumble around a bit, be awkward as you learned how to use new tools, and eventually, you would get it done.

It’s not the perfect analogy for building relationships since I also believe it takes two to tango, and in relationships, the other person needs to also put some effort in. Regardless, the point stands. Be brave. Be bold. Decide what you want and what it will take to get there. For me, I want to build solid friendships and create strong communities. So I make a list every week of who I want to connect with somehow and the groups I want to attend, and then I reach out to make it happen. It takes time. It takes patience. It takes energy. It’s hard to balance with work, family, and personal time. It takes putting yourself out there, again and again, even when you’d rather stay home and watch the Bachelor. But both the present and future you deserve it, so we’ve gotta work our tails off to make that happen. Because let’s be real here: it’s not gonna happen on its own.

There’s a beautiful relationship  between taking action and trusting that things will happen as they need to. I’ve known people in the past who have prayed for something and just assumed it would happen because of that. I’ve also known folks who have just waited for parts of life to come together in its own time. I’m not saying either of those are bad, and I absolutely believe having that faith and trust is important. However, it’s not enough on its own. We have the power to be the change both in the world outside us and within our own lives, and if we want something to happen, there is something to be said about taking the steps to make the dream a reality. Otherwise, it remains out there in space, floating around with all the other space debris.

One thing I’ve learned is that life is too short, and it’s not guaranteed. Why waste the precious time we have here waiting for something to happen to us? Today, choose to be the author of your own life, decide how you want the story to go, and go make that happen.

If you have a dream, go chase it
If you feel hope, don’t waste it
If you find love, embrace it
And never take a single breath for granted
The story’s yours, go write it
Tomorrow’s undecided
Our days are counted on this planet
Never take a single breath
Take a single breath for granted
(“Granted” by Josh Groban)


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This month’s playlist

I’ve always loved music, and that love has intensified over the past few years. My repertoire was small starting out since I grew up with pretty much just the Beach Boys, Tchaikovsky, and Enya, so it’s grown a bit over the past few decades. I’ve written about this before, so that’s nothing new. What is new, though, is that I’ve realized over the past few months, I’ve had to keep an eye on when I’m using music to process or calm the chaos in my head and when I’ve been using it to drown out the other thoughts and emotions going on and.

I’ve also realized that music is a good way for me to check in with my emotional state right now. Six weeks ago, when the song “I Lived” by OneRepublic came through my speakers, I couldn’t listen to it without crying. I felt like it personified so beautifully my time in North Carolina and those emotions were far too raw to listen to a rehashing of that chapter at that time. Now, I play it intentionally to remind myself of what I had and how beautiful, intricate, and full that time was. I’m considering writing to OneRepublic to rename it “Anthem to the Tar Heel State.”  

Hope when you take that jump / You don’t fear the fall

Hope when the water rises / You built a wall

Hope when the crowd screams out / They’re screaming your name

Hope if everybody runs / You choose to stay

Hope that you fall in love / And it hurts so bad (Yeah)

The only way you can know / You gave it all you had

And I hope that you don’t suffer / But take the pain

Hope when the moment comes, / You’ll say

I, I did it all

I, I did it all

I owned every second that this world could give

I saw so many places, the things that I did

Yeah with every broken bone

I swear I lived

I went to a Big Daddy Weave concert with a good friend of mine back in April, when thoughts of transition and moving were still in flux and I was trying to discern my next steps. In fact, this concert shed some light on what I was feeling at the time and helped me figure out some of my priorities. When my friend  hears songs by that band on the radio now, he often sends me a note to let me know he’s thinking of me. Some songs by that band helped me through a difficult transition and remind me where I wanted to keep my faith and trust. Those songs encourage me to stay strong and are a reminder that when I feel a void, I know who I want to fill it.

I need to hear You now

I need to know it’s You

I’m standing on your promises

I know your Words are true

You’re bigger what I see

That it’s You in exchange for me

‘Cause even the impossible is your reality

Jesus I believe

Speaking of concerts, I saw U2 with some friends before I left the East Coast, and it was such a fun weekend with wonderful experiences. I’ve been listening to their album, Songs of Experience, so much lately that I’m a bit concerned my CD player will burn a hole through it. They sing of love, of pain, of experience and innocence, and their song “13 (There is a Light)” speaks of finding the light in the darkness and keeping it alive. It’s been a mantra for me lately.

I’ve got a question for the child in you before it leaves

Are you tough enough to be kind?

Do you know your heart has its own mind?

Darkness gathers around the lights

Hold on

Hold on

There is a light

We can’t always see

If there is a world

We can’t always be

If there is a dark

That we shouldn’t doubt

And there is a light

Don’t let it go out

My man JG recently released a song about going down to the river where the water can remind you that your troubles aren’t the end of the line and that through the confusion, frustration, and pain, we can emerge stronger than before – if we choose to. Given that the ocean has always been my place where I go to find peace amid the chaos of life, this one speaks directly to my soul (and is another reason why we would be perfect together..if he only knew I existed..).

So I walk down to the river

Where the troubles, they can’t find me

Let the waters there remind me

The sun will be there when we wake

I walk down to the river

Though I might not understand it

It’s not always as we planned it

But we grow stronger when we break

So I walk down to the river

I walk down to the river

I have some musically talented friends who create incredible things. One of them wrote a song that is one of the most beautiful lullabies I’ve heard and it makes me pause every time I hit play. When I hear it, I am reminded that it’s okay (and necessary) to let others help me bear the burdens I carry. I listen to it to help me breathe, to calm down, and to remember the importance of letting down my walls.

Easy there baby, open your eyes

Saddle up for your long ride

Stay the course, follow through

There’s nobody left who’s chasing you

To the other side, to the other side

Save your life, not your pride

You don’t have to carry on that same way

You don’t have to carry on that same way

It’s funny looking at patterns. When I first moved out here, I couldn’t listen to any of these songs. They were too raw, too encouraging, too empathetic, in a sense. I didn’t need someone to cry with me then; I needed something more akin to Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger” or Halestorm’s “Here’s to Us” to push me through to the next dawn. Now, I’m a bit more emotionally stable (thank goodness) and the softer, more gentle music reminds me how far I’ve come and that somehow, it’s all going to be okay. As Gary Allan croons in one of my favorite songs,Every storm runs out of rain, just like every dark night turns into day / Every heartache will fade away, just like every storm runs, runs out of rain.

I’m reading The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle and it’s been giving me some food for thought. Last night, I came across a nugget that has stayed with me: “Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it.” We live in the present. Not the future and certainly not in the past. Personally, I know I get caught up in futuristic thinking far too often. You know the type: On Friday, I’m doing this. And then this weekend, this is happening. And next weekend is this other cool thing…and so on and so forth. And in times of transition, it’s easy to reminisce about the past…over and over again. The challenge before us, as Tolle says, is to “allow the present moment to be.”

I can’t speak for you, but when I get completely immersed in a song, the only place I can live is in the moment- in the present. I’ve heard it said before that when words fail, music speaks. These days, it’s speaking to me with affirmation of what I’m doing, validation of what I’ve done, and encouragement to keep moving forward. 


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Growing pains

There have been so many times in the past two months that I’ve thought, “Oh, that’s a great thought/idea/concern/sore spot for me to unpack later. I’m excited to do that.” And then packing up my life and selling my furniture became a priority, then moving across the country took priority, then settling into this new place became important. Needless to say, there have been far too many introspective moments that I’ve put off in the last month or so.

It’s been nineteen days since I left North Carolina and two weeks to the day since I drove into southern California. In those fourteen days since I’ve arrived, I’ve been to the beach a total of 10 times, I’ve played with my nephews five times, I’ve seen my new niece three times, and my sister has visited from south county both weekends. In between, I’ve seen my mom, my dad, my grandparents, three of the brothers, and my one college friend who lives in town. I’ve worked a total of seven days so far and started to build relationships with the seven people in my office. I’ve gone on five runs and two bike rides.

All in all, it’s been a busy couple of weeks. This afternoon might be the first time I’ve had more than a half hour to sit and breathe.

The silence is deafening.

In the silence, I look at the North Carolina license plate that sits crooked against my desk, missing its old home on my silver Camry. I see reminders of the friends and communities that I willingly left everywhere around me – the photo collage, the bracelet, the leftover snacks from my road trip with notes lovingly still attached to them, emails from dear friends, and more. I hear my mother’s voice saying, “You know, everyone’s been asking me and I’m wondering it, too. Why did you choose to leave that beautiful place?!” On my runs, I marvel at the intense lack of greenery in the neighborhoods. At work, I haven’t put up any of the pictures of my friends that were in my old office yet because I’m afraid that looking at them will make me cry. On my drives home from work, sometimes the “what if’s” start to creep in. In those moments, the thought inevitably makes its way to the surface: did I make a mistake?

I think I’ve been running away from the silence because I was afraid of where it might take me.

Teaching in rural North Carolina and all the struggles, doubts, and difficulties that came with it used to be the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. By now, moving from North Carolina to California ties with it. I knew this would be hard. I look back in my journal from this spring as I was job hunting, and I wrote about how I knew it would be painful, lonely, and difficult. But I don’t think anything could have prepared me for this.

I miss North Carolina with my whole heart. I miss the greenery and the trees. I miss my rose garden, my favorite museum, and all my favorite running routes where I processed so much of life. I miss southern hospitality and the easy drawl of the South. I miss the empty roadways and the downtown that I love so much. Above all, I miss all my people. I can’t even list them here because that would be too hard.

I’ve been processing these emotions with a few people and they’ve had a lot of wisdom that spoke to my heart. One friend told me that when you have multiples homes, you’re always homesick. Another reminded me that although I love so many people in North Carolina, I made this move because there are people I love here too, and I decided it was their turn. Yet another told me that effort is never wasted – even if a plan doesn’t seem to turn out as I hoped, in the end there will be some good that comes from it. Others have stepped in during my times of doubt to remind me of the reasons why I chose to come here and the validity and presence of those reasons, even in the darkness. Through it all, I’ve felt so much love and support from so many people.

I know good will come from this. I’ve already seen the smiles on my nephews’ faces as I walk in their house and pepper them with kisses for the second time that week or I show one of them the book I brought to read before bedtime. I felt the happiness radiating from my grandparents when I visited them yesterday and promised to be back soon, instead of in six or eight months. It was strange but wonderful to say goodbye to my sister today and promise to connect in person sometime next month. I’ve noticed the peace I feel anytime I sit and stare at the majestic ocean, a mere two miles from where I live now.

I know the pain will fade. I know I’ll find my communities here and build meaningful relationships here. I know that reconnecting with the family will take time but it will be worth it. I know I came here for a reason, even if I don’t know all of the reasons. These things I know, and I believe them with all my heart.

But man, does it hurt. In a way, I know it’s a beautiful kind of pain. It’s a pain of belonging, of deep friendship, of love, of home. It wouldn’t hurt this much if I hadn’t invested so strongly and cared so much about the people in my life. I wouldn’t feel like this if I hadn’t made any efforts to make North Carolina home. I loved my time there and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. If this is what I get in exchange for those incredible, beautiful years, well, I guess I’ll take it.

One of my favorite quotations to revisit in times of hurt is from C.S. Lewis:

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

To love is to be vulnerable. To put yourself out there means to get hurt. To get scars. To put any kind of effort at all out there means that at some point, at some time, we will care, and in caring, we will inevitably get hurt.

To love fiercely, to live deeply, and to enjoy the moment – this is what I have done for years and this is what I will continue to do. New state, new challenges, new adventures, new people, same girl. To quote Desiree, one of my spunky but determined students from five years ago:

Let’s do this.