Lessons

"A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest ... shapes it, renders it, loves it.” – Joan Didion

"The art that speaks most clearly, explicitly, directly and passionately from its place of origin will remain the longest understood." – Eudora Welty

"You see, I have never felt the need to invent a world beyond this world, for this world has always seemed large and beautiful enough for me. I have wondered why it is not large and beautiful enough for others — why they must dream up new and marvelous spheres, or long to live elsewhere, beyond this dominion ... but that is not my business. We are all different, I suppose." - Elizabeth Gilbert, The Signature of All Things

“Stories teach us how to be human. As I understand it, becoming fully human means learning to savor the world, to share in community, to see through the eyes of other people, to take responsibility for our actions, to educate our desires, to dwell knowingly in time and place, to cope with suffering and death. … We need one another. Yet our souls and communities are divided by fear and ignorance and strife. We walk in beauty, yet much of what we do is ugly. We inhabit a magnificent planet, yet we devour our home. Stories are not instruction manuals; they do not teach us in any simple way how to lead our lives. By inviting us to participate in imaginary lives, however, they deepen our understanding and enlarge our sympathies for other people, for other creatures, for the places and purposes that human beings share, and for the earth. That is a good beginning." – Scott Russell Sanders, “The Power of Stories”

“No union is more profound than marriage, for it embodies the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family. In forming a marital union, two people become something greater than once they were. As some of the petitioners in these cases demonstrate, marriage embodies a love that may endure even past death. It would misunderstand these men and women to say they disrespect the idea of marriage. Their plea is that they do respect it, respect it so deeply that they seek to find its fulfillment for themselves. Their hope is not to be condemned to live in loneliness, excluded from one of civilization's oldest institutions. They ask for equal dignity in the eyes of the law. The Constitution grants them that right.” – Supreme Court Justice Anthony Kennedy, June 26, 2015

Phillip

I could keep writing about Australia in pieces--snapshots of curtain figs, fake Aboriginal villages, croc-prone waters, curlews calling in the night--and I might, but at the heart of it all is Phillip.

For me, our honeymoon was perhaps what it should be: the fact that it was the two of us together exploring the world was the best part of it all. We could have been anywhere, and as long as he was my partner, we would have found our way. For me, it was those small moments with him that made the experience. When, somewhere between Rockhampton and Townsville, he suddenly pulled the car over and asked me to take photos of the grassy mountains, near monoliths, at our side; those are some of our best and favorite photos. When Auntie Florence started calling him Prince William and he blushed and shook his head. When I watched him jump full on into waves as they hit Trinity Beach, joyful like a child, and snorkel in the distance for hours on his own personal journey of the Reef. When he dropped his Coke into Paul the five-meter croc's enclosure because I startled him yelling "Mosquitoes!" as he was photographing ants on the ledge. When he lifted a kangaroo's tail to feel its heft and lounged next to one to get the full effect. When I thought he was taking photos of me jumping--a classic beach pose--in the shallows of Hervey Bay but when I asked if he got it he said he'd been taking a video because I looked beautiful. That's my husband. That's my best friend. That's the man I'm so grateful for, who took this leap of faith with me and went abroad, went to my grandmother's homeland, and when we got home we wanted even more of each other because we get so little sustained time.

I loved all of our time in Australia, but I loved it more and because I shared it with Phillip. That is the real story.

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.

On the edge

Back in March, Phillip came for his last visit before the move, and so we made the most of it. He saw, heard, smelled the ocean for the first time, as we walked along Folly Beach, SC, near sunset. The sand was cold, the water colder, but we walked together and listened to the waves.

Next weekend we walk together into a new chapter of our lives, as I move back to my hometown to live with Phillip and start teaching English at Hutchinson Community College.

There's so much more to say but, for now, let's just think of the beauty of the world, and the promise for tomorrow. Life is wonderful.

She wishes.

Literally

I can tell you that, in the last week, I've been to Kansas and back. Just like that. And it feels like it, too. Like just five minutes ago I was walking from the economy parking lot down the sidewalk to the entrance of the tiny and wonderful (though suspiciously lacking in water fountains) Greenville-Spartanburg Airport. A few seconds later I was in descent to Kansas City International Airport, watching the clouds thicken and thin from my window seat. I had been watching the clouds all afternoon, the texture of the upper surface, some tall, some fast, some grey, and the way the sun hit and colored. I had been thinking about the difference of below, how the earth below would be in shadow, under white and lacking sun, while, geographically, I was in the same place yet in an entirely different place. There was sun, blue sky, white only below. I had also been thinking about how wonderful it is that on a plane ride your only job is to gaze at clouds and ponder the earth.

It was in this mindset that I looked for the familiarity of Kansas. As I studied the clouds, we passed through them and, just below, they parted. I fixed on a football stadium below and tried to match the layout with stadiums I have known. First I thought Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City, but it wasn't large enough. Then I thought a high school, but it seemed too large. I picked up on the southside building, bright sand, without stands and surveyed its surroundings. Green with more buildings of the same hue. Red roofs on some. Scattered yet close. And then I realized. It was Lawrence.

I searched East for Massachusetts street and found a clustered, lined road. Then North to where the Kansas River should be, flowing East, and found the seemingly still brown mass curving above the town. Just above the Kaw, I followed I-70 from Lawrence to the service station in the middle of lanes to the toll booth farther down yet before Exit 410 and the Speedway. The young UMKC student sitting next to me had been shifting restlessly throughout the short flight from Dallas, occasionally peering forward to see out our window. As we passed over my former home, I pointed down with my left thumb, grinning.

"That was Lawrence," I said, and he nodded, for we had already shared our brief back stories. I smiled and followed the lines of fields and farms, highways and rays of light from the scattered clouds as we closed in on the airport. Kansas only gained this beauty, to me, when I knew I was leaving. And now I was setting down again on this ground that I had left nearly three months before, relieved in the simple curve of the earth and the plotted paths of trees, if only because I missed it and what it still held for me.

Taxiing up to the gate, I texted Jedsen, "I'm here! I'm here! I'm here!" and looked out the window once more to trace the sun down to the ground. A rainbow had formed in the few minutes since we had landed. The right side touched down, centered in my window.

"There's a rainbow," I said to the boy next to me, pointing out again that which I loved.

"There must be a pot of gold down there," he said, shifting his backpack on his shoulders, ready to be on his home ground after three months in Mexico.

I nodded and wanted to walk with him out the terminal to where I hoped to find Jedsen waiting and point to him and say, "There's the man I love."

What you say

I was reading my first journal the other day (from age nine to fourteen), reminiscing on who I once was and what I once knew. Mostly, the first half of it contains details about the day, such as what I wore, who liked whom at school, where we walked to, and what we ate. Mostly, the last half of it contains professions of love for the Backstreet Boys, and claims to commit suicide for the stress of not hearing "Everybody" on the radio in the last week. Throughout, I constantly update myself on who I like, who’s on my "like list," like Kyle Hollingsworth and Adam Lance and James Marsden. Some remain for a year, some fleet in and out like turtles rising to the surface for a gulp of air. But I also wrote some surprising things, like this on Saturday, June 20, 1998: “Tonight we went to Anchor Inn for supper and there was a young couple behind us—teenage, I mean. They were sort of arguing, but weren’t yelling, weren’t giving each other angry looks, were just questioning the other’s actions. I sat there, listening, and thought ‘I can’t wait until I can have that kind of “best friend” relationship with a guy. It’ll be so much fun.’ I can’t place myself in that situation—not yet. But, I’m longing for that day, and until then—I dream.” 

Well, I can tell you that I’m living that thirteen-year-old’s dream.