On leaving and arriving

I've kept myself at home over the last week and a half, busily unpacking every box, cleaning every room, alphabetizing every shelf. In part because Phillip and I are homebodies and we like to relax together watching River Monsters (woah, guys) on Netflix--that is, whenever he can get me to relax and slow down, as it seems I have lost all sense of what it means to relax over the last decade. But also because we didn't need anything outside of the house except to see our families and introduce Scooter to the neighborhood. I stayed home, and perhaps (besides the unpacking) it felt too much like a vacation because it wasn't until I ventured out on my own on Saturday that it hit me: I'm not in Spartanburg anymore.

I was driving down Plum, an old, familiar street, to the 30th St. Dillon's we always went to growing up, when I saw a man in khakis, glasses, and a ball cap walking on the sidewalk. Phillip Stone! my mind told me, and I lifted my hand to wave. But my excitement over a friend's face was quickly replaced by the sudden let-down that it couldn't possibly be Phillip Stone because he doesn't live here, because I don't still live where he lives.

Just a block later I pulled into the Dillon's parking lot and glanced into a passing car to see a curly-haired man--Nick Isaksson! my gut said. But, no, Nick Isaksson drives a red sports car, not a blue one, and he lives in the town I no longer do.

By this time my heart had sunk. By this time the mourning for Spartanburg had set in. By this time I realized those faces I looked forward to seeing on the street and at HUB-BUB and on mountain trails wouldn't be the faces I saw anymore. I was back to before faces, faces of a life long ago, faces I wanted to see ... eventually, but not instead of Spartanburg faces. So I didn't even feel like going into the store anymore, sick with the feeling of loss, but I needed a Plus card and I needed groceries for dinner. And because the universe didn't think I'd felt it acutely enough yet, a tall man with short hair and a thick, raggly red beard walked out as I walked in. Jonathon Knight! I wanted to yell, and walk up to him with a high-five. But, alas, I knew it was not and could not be Jonathon Knight.

Thus began my panic attack in the customer service line at Dillon's as I waited ten minutes to get a discount card.

I didn't think it would be like this, but I also didn't know what to expect upon moving back to my hometown, the one I left eight years ago swearing I would never return to. But I also never expected to find Phillip again, to fall in love, to know that he would be the one thing that could bring me back, and to have him be the thing that brought me back. And into his (our) adorable home. With a dog and a cat. With a whole heck of a lot of books. And with a heart heavy for a Southern town that had so embraced me as their own.

I intended to write a love letter to Spartanburg before I left, but, as with nearly every letter I tried to sit down and write, I couldn't actually convince myself that I was leaving. Like, for good. Yes, I had given up my amazing job (ouch), was packing my sweet abode in Duncan Park (ugh), and was, night by night, sharing final drinks and conversations with the closest friends I've, well, ever made (sob). But it didn't feel real, permanent, about to actually happen. It didn't feel real on the morning we left, as I said final goodbyes to Erin, Erica, and Sara. It didn't feel real as we guided the 16ft truck with the car attached through the neighborhoods and out of town. It didn't feel real when we pulled up in front of the house in Hutch and Scooter leaped from the truck and chased two cats up trees in his first five minutes as a resident. Nope, it wasn't real until that first Saturday afternoon, here nearly a week, when I realized what and who was gone. The lush, tall trees are gone, too; the sky is full above.

But here's what I do have: the most amazing boyfriend who feeds my mind and deepens my soul and fills my heart, the start of a teaching career at the college where I began, the closeness of my brother and parents and grandparents who have always supported me, and the opportunity to bring back all I learned from that incredible little city in South Carolina to see how I can impact this hometown of mine. Because, Spartanburg, I wouldn't be back here if you hadn't taught me about the necessity to love and build my own community, to take risks and be myself, to live openly and adventurously, to jump in where I'm needed, and to understand how we are all connected by the desire to listen and be heard. I'll say it again: Spartanburg changed my life. And now I'm here to run with it in my brand new blue shoes.

But I might be waving at strangers for a while.

Erin and I at the 2013 Expecting Goodness Short Film Festival on March 23. Fancy!

Sara and I at an RJ Rockers Taste & Tour. Love love love.

Erica, Sara, and I before we saw Ira Glass at the Peace Center in Greenville.

Amanda, Nick, Michelle, and I on Party Rock of Rumbling Bald Mt. above Lake Lure, NC. Amazing.

Sara and I--prom dates!--at the HUB-BUB Second Chance Prom.

Darryl and I--second prom date!--at the HUB-BUB prom.

Ladies! at the HUB-BUB prom.

We drink beer in the rain! With Alex, Lee, Sarah, Jonathon, Amanda, and Erica (behind the camera) at the Best Firkin Beer Festival in Asheville.

Happy in the rain, still! At the super beer festival.

Love these ladies lots--and the beer.

Erin, aka Office Wife, and I after the Josh Rouse concert in Asheville. Super special.

Scooter and I saying goodbye to the Cottonwood Trail and the Lawson's Fork.

Erin, Betsy, and I on my last day. Truly, the end of an era. All I could do was smile because I love and respect these women so much.

A sweet farewell from former Spartanburg mayor Bill Barnet, who never ceased to tell me he loved me.

Dear, sweet Madelaine and I during my last few minutes (literally) as a Hub City employee.

One final Taste & Tour with Erin. Drunk on a cup.

What I consider my first home. Lakeside Drive, you're forever in my heart.

A life in a truck. Mostly all in, mostly all by myself.

Scooter from his small floorspace in the Budget truck. He never complained. Not once.

My first glimpse of Hutchinson as we arrived home, just before dark.