I woke up at 5:30 am, stripped the air mattress I had been sleeping on, and stuffed the sheets, pillow, and pillowcase into a dumpster. I folded the mattress into a square and put it under my arm, threw the keys on the counter, and walked out the door.
It felt like a scene from the Bourne Identity. Okay, it really wasn't quite that dramatic (or that simple...I might have done some last-minute mopping before making my triumphant exit), but waking up alone in an empty apartment and knowing it is the last time you will see that place does carry with it some emotional weight. The relentless chaos I lived in for weeks leading up to the moment of vacancy was so overwhelming that opening my eyes to uncluttered floors and uninterrupted expanses of clean, white walls felt both surreal and mercifully calming. My body and my soon-to-be-disposed-of bed were the last remaining objects in the place. The fridge gleamed with bright white emptiness. My eyelids stuck to slept-in contacts because my solution had been packed. Even the dog and her fur-blanketed neuroses had been removed days earlier.
And so began the countdown to my last moments in Portland. The following morning I would leave on a three-day journey to Denver, Colorado. But for the next 24 hours I would regroup and rest at the home of a dear friend, pack my car at the home of yet another dear friend, clean out my desk at work and drink with several beloved coworkers, visit with dear-friend-of-the-day # 3 over a glass of wine, and watch a flock of swifts roost with a new friend I am sad I didn't get to know better before I left. All these lovely moments occurred on a gorgeous sunny day in Portland that melted into a glorious sunset sliced by the rising of a milky blue moon. All quivered under the uncertainly of whether (or, more realistically, "when") I would regret the decision to leave.
Many people have contacted me recently to ask why I moved and, if the conversation's length and format allowed, why I moved so suddenly. This is a fair questions considering that most of these people have, in the last 18 months, been subjected to an outpouring of elated babbling about how much I love Portland and how ecstatic I have been to live there. Allow me to be the first to agree that it is strange that I no longer do and that I very much hope to again. So, the quick-and-dirty answer to this question is that I moved to Denver to help my sister and her husband with their baby. The full-fledged, bona fide reason I decided to make this move is not a single reason, but an amorphous composite of smaller reasons that includes elements of: family stuff, job stuff, double rainbows, and a recent decision to begin steering my own ship (see previous post). Granted, if that is the best reason I can come up with, it is fair for readers and friends to also wonder if perhaps I may be steering my ship away from any kind of remotely reasonable or recognizable port, therefor defeating the purpose of steering it at all. I would have to agree and admit that this fear is at the forefront of my mind. I do, however, take comfort in the fact that at least the ship is moving.
Now that I have been in Denver for almost a week, a number of crystal-clear truths have emerged from the ether of the last month's emotional and logistical turmoil. One, I do miss Portland terribly, like a jilted lover who keeps finding ways to work Portland's name into conversation. Two, my dog is a fucking freak. This shouldn't be a surprise (see previous posts) but new circumstances provide new venues for her to reveal the depths of her freakishness, and this one is no exception. Three, spending large amounts of time alone with someone who is a single year old is one of the most unnerving and revealing and thrilling and exhausting experiences a person can have. More to come on that (stay tuned!). Four, I am going to have to learn to love driving again, against my true nature and better judgement. If you will remember, I was about to sell my car. I now live somewhere where to be car-less would equal complete dependence or complete isolation. Five, the months I will spend here are a perfect opportunity for me to test some of the mental habits I have tried to form over the last year, specifically: making good use of time, persisting in the fact of obstacles, thinking positively, and making/pursuing plans that I know are good for me even when all I want to do is fall back into the blessed comfort of sameness.
None of these is a small thing. But I feel lucky to be so acutely aware that I am doing, as Mark Knopfler phrased it, the Walk of Life. My circumstances are fluid, in motion, out of balance but, in some ways, more under my control than they have been in years. My future is unknown, but that fact increases my awareness, my vigilance over every second. I have inexplicably left left the life of my choosing. I am starting over, staring out over a precipice. I feel lonely and scared, but also happy and excited. I feel alive.
