A year ago, almost to the day, I was convinced that I was going to move to Texas. I was also certain that I was SUPPOSED to move to my current midwestern location, but could not see the way that was going to happen – Texas was on the cusp of offering me a job, and it had been radio silence from my now-boss for a week.
I was resistant to moving back to the midwest, at first, stubbornly informing myself (and others) that it was NOT. TIME. TO. LEAVE. THE. SOUTH.
Except that it was. Around March 2013, Nashville stopped being an option, and I knew I had to leave. My first afternoon in my now-hometown, I wandered into an indoor market and thought, “Ohhhh crap. I am supposed to live here.” I had been there for all of 2 hours. I had seen nothing but my hotel room and this market. But I knew, much like I had known Davidson was the right choice after 30 seconds in the parking lot.
And so, on April 29, 2013 (as noted by Facebook), I was in hotel bed #8, in Texas, convinced that I was going to have to take the job that they offered me, because it was going to be my only job offer, and all my spidey-senses about the midwest were completely wrong.
But on May 2, 2013, I got an email from my now-boss, informing me that he was drafting me an offer. A good offer. A dream job offer. And on May 15, 2013, after putting on my big-girl pants and doing a little negotiating, I signed that offer.
And here I am.
This past weekend was my first in 6 weeks that I was both home and not working, and it was glorious. I spent Friday night out with the fabulous women in my community group, Saturday morning playing euchre at a local retirement home with church folk, Saturday afternoon running errands (all in a 5-10 mile radius from my house), and Sunday at church, running on the greenway just steps from my house, and having a fantastic discussion at our church community group.
My church sings Red Mountain and Indelible Grace and All Sons & Daughters and Enter the Worship Circle. We have communion every Sunday and use liturgy and sermons are filled with historical context and gospel and grace. Wonder and uncertainty and mystery and wrestling with the hard parts of the Bible are common themes. Those who doubt and question are welcomed – not just into the building, but into the community, before they stop doubting or questioning – BECAUSE they are doubting and questioning. Stories and differences are shared without judgment.
I live an old neighborhood with giant trees and neighbors who wave and stop to chat when I’m sitting on my porch swing. I have a porch swing! All my neighbors came to my Christmas party. I know their names. They call the police when they see a strange truck sitting outside my driveway for too long (even if it’s just my contractor). I can walk to the local coffee shop, a handful of restaurants, the neighborhood hardware store, a wine bar, the ice cream shop, even the drug store and grocery store if I am feeling ambitious. The greenway goes for 18 miles and it was an easy decision to train for a marathon in the fall, what with all that gorgeous outdoor space to run in – Sunday’s run went by a blue, blue lake and a million blooming trees and hundreds of people reveling in the fact that we survived the winter and spring had finally come.
I can walk to my dance studio – a place I found before I even moved, not realizing HOW close it would be to my house, not knowing I would be there three times a week, rediscovering how much I loved it, despite the inflexibility and slow reflexes and incoordination that come with age and lack of use. On Thursday nights, until it gets too dark too early in the fall and winter, I walk to dance one way and return by another so I can grab a hot dog and a cream puff at the sausage truck, where I pretend I am honoring my German heritage, but I am really just honoring my love of hot dogs. They expect me, now, put specially-flavored cream puffs aside so I don’t miss it, ask where I’ve been when I’m gone for a long time.
There’s a farmers’ market less than a mile down the road, all local, open every Saturday spring through fall, and in the most bountiful times I hardly need to go to the grocery store. The farmer’s market is across the street from my yoga studio, where an Ashtanga class is held every Saturday morning, so I slip out of savasana and into the market and feel strong and well-fed (and a little smelly), eating homemade muffins and drinking locally roasted coffee as I try to keep myself from buying everything I see.
Even my hair is well-cared for, at a salon for curly-haired girls only, where somehow Amy finds a way to make my waves work regardless of length. And she has found a particular dye that my hair adores, not the least bit brassy after 6 months of roots-only touchups.
And as if all that is not enough, somehow my cousin and his girlfriend, a member of our family long before their relationship started, live here too, now. They both recently got jobs that they actually want, that correspond to their college majors and careers. My parents are an easy few hours drive away, making visits easy.
Life is full, bountiful here. Almost a year, and I am still adjusting to the idea that I can put down roots. I can settle in. There is no expiration date on my time here. The relationships I am forming, the work I am doing, the life I am building – it is okay for it to unfold gradually, one step at a time. There’s an outdoor labyrinth at the local arboretum I can walk when I forget this and need a tangible reminder. And I am so grateful that one year ago, after all my insistence that I could never move from the south and back to the midwest, it became clear that that was not only my only option, but the right one.
Quote for the day:
“Looking back it is clear to me
A man is more than the sum of his deeds
And how you’ve made good of this mess I’ve made
Is a profound mystery
Looking back you know you had to bring me through
All that I was so afraid of
Though I questioned the sky
Now I see why
I had to walk the rocks to see the mountain view
Looking back I see a lead of love…”
- “Lead of Love”, Caedmon’s Call