On the kamikaze fourteen-hour drive from eastern Idaho to the northern coast of Washington, my only company the dog curled up in the piles of bedding jammed into the Subaru and Cy's voice on the radio as he piloted the van in front of us, I thought about the other times I've driven away from an old home toward a new one.
When I left Brevard, two goodbyes stood out: the one to my withholding and not very good boyfriend, which was sad but lackluster, and the one to my father, which felt emblematic of becoming a grown up. When I left Tahoe, I drove away from a crowded hotel room at a casino in Reno, where we had celebrated the end of another season in fittingly hedonistic fashion. Everything and everyone was transient in Tahoe so it didn't feel noteworthy to leave, although I was going to miss some of the people I had met. But my partner was waiting in Idaho with a new life ready for me, so I headed east.
This time, I was driving away from my home of ten years. In Teton Valley I became fully actualized, changed a lot, grew a lot. I had a deep sense of community, like I had in Brevard, but stronger and earned on my own rather than through my parents' business. I had a husband and a career and a house and adult friendships that made me feel so fortunate I could cry.
My winter of goodbyes was drawn out and peaceful, because I had the privilege and luxury of leaving my intense job in November and only dabbling in work through April. It was an amazing winter with tons of good skiing and opportunities for adventures with people I care about. When I wasn't skiing or volunteering at the food pantry or listening to podcasts or typing away at JayP's book, I was slowly purging the house and tidying up loose ends. When it came time to pack, of course, we discovered I hadn't purged aggressively enough, but isn't that always the case.
We filled our final weeks with as many hugs and drinks and walks and skis as possible, but I still didn't feel like I had done my friends justice. But they all quickly lined up with dates that they wanted to come visit, to spring ski and mountain bike, so none of my goodbyes were forever.
Regardless, I cried often in the final week, almost as sad to be leaving my beloved little house in town as I was to be leaving my community.
I thought I remembered writing on my blog in 2012 that, as I drove west away from the Blue Ridge, all my feelings were packed away in a box buried under other boxes in the car. It appears that I didn't write that after all, but I definitely thought it, and on my next big drive west, to Washington, it was exactly the same way. After the ceaseless churn of sadness, once I was in motion the feelings went into their little box, to be stored and forgotten somewhere in our new rental.
Here, I'm not sad, just a little restless, waiting for life to start, waiting to accumulate friends and experiences and knowledge all over again.
It's been amazing to ride from the house to the tangled web of trails and remember what good dirt is, when Teton Valley mountain biking is still months away from prime season. But the ride that really cinched the decision wasn't on trails, it was on pathways. A friend of a friend took us out to tour some of the city on gravel bikes and the sheer density of back alleys and greenways and bike lanes and singletrack cut-throughs filled me with joy. This place has arteries and veins crisscrossing the whole body to serve the beating center. And being able to ride safely and quickly and on scenic byways to the grocery store is a major factor in quality of life.
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| The path to the grocery store looks like this. |
