Are You Coming Back?

When I was almost twenty-four years old, I got on a plane and headed to California. Just like that. I don't think I thought about it for more than a few days. It was something I felt I just needed to do. So, my Minnesota behind boarded a plane and landed in Sunny California. Or rather, what would have been Sunny California if it hadn't been in the middle of the night. My Auntie and Uncle and four-year-old cousin came to the Airport and picked me up. The first thing I noticed when I got out of the airport was the smog. And then the palm trees. I thought they were just movie props. And then we got on the freeway and headed "home."

The first night away from everything familiar (and I was not one of those kids who loved being home. I left every chance I got!) and it hit me. I was away from everything familiar. I was starting over. And there, next to my cousin, in a full size bed -- far away from the lakes and the mosquitoes and star filled nights and long summer days and fall leaves and the smell of spring when the snow just starts to melt, I started to sob. There was this finality to it. I knew, deep down in my heart, that I wasn't going to come back.

Ok. So, let me make things clear for everyone who is reading this (as well as J.S. who is probably thinking "oh hell no. You will go home, woman!"):  I am planning on coming back to California.

This is what we are calling a long test run. I'll go for a month. See if we kill each other (we won't), See if I will be able to stand Omaha (It's just a town to me right now, I have no idea what it's about), check out the job markets and look at the schools and sort of have a vacation while meeting the rest of Jay's family.  But I know that feeling. I had it when I got on the plane to come to California.

When I moved to California I was moving from a small one bedroom apartment that I solidified into a room at my then best friend Michelle's apartment. There were books and childhood things that I packed into boxes and had a friend of mine ship for a very good deal through his job that I shall not name in order to protect his not so innocent but willing to do anything for a good friend ass. It was strange sitting in a strange town with boxes of your life surrounding you. But those things kept me from feeling... lost.

Still, I was homesick. I had no intention of going back. But I was homesick. There is comfort in familiar.

So yes. I'm coming back. This time. But this trip is ... everything. It's the beginning of the shape of things without knowing what that shape might be.

My friends here are the ones who are reminding me of just how big of a deal it is -- this trip. I don't want to sound all deep and dark. It's not a sad thing. It's a big thing. There is a difference. It's an exciting big thing. That sounds pornographic. It's ... significant. And saying goodbye (for now) doesn't make me sad to the point that I'll change my mind. It makes me sad that I'm going to miss them, but that there is something so much better waiting for me. It makes me sad that I can't have both and that, given the choice, I would always choose her.

It's that feeling I had when I came to California way back in 1992: "I'll miss all of you. But I can give you up," my heart said.

It's saying that same thing now. For a much different reason, but the ending is the same. I can leave here for her. Not without effort, not without tears and feeling a bit homesick. But I can leave here. For her. For us.  

It is so fucking worth it.