In Getting Myself Here
I am sitting in an office in the back of the library with
four people I have known for just over two weeks. We are having late-afternoon
coffee and the muffins that one of my officemates made for us. This is my
second coffee of the day; earlier, a coworker brought me a cup as I was
releasing my students to go on break. We are laughing at how hot it is in this
tiny room. On one wall, an award hangs that reads, “Civil Rights Activist of
the Year.” On another, a post-it with the handwritten message, “The plural of
anecdote is not data!” Jimi
Hendrix is playing from muffled computer speakers, and between laughs, there is
talk of grading, enrolling students, and the next faculty meeting.
My work phone rings for the first time, and I’m confused by
the low-pitched sound it makes. It is our Dean, who is also a recent transplant.
Although I’m new to this campus, I have worked with him for years. He was the
one who hired me and recommended me for the coordinator position I held at our
other campus; now, he continues to be one of my most trusted mentors and greatest
supporters. I smile when I see the familiar name appear on the screen. We talk
briefly about scheduling. It’s a conversation I am glad to be having with him.
As I hang up the phone, someone opens our office door, which
is just inches away from my desk. It’s our Regional Director. She is in town
for the day and makes it a point to stop by and see me. “So what do you think
of your new campus? How was your move?” Before I answer, I lean in and give her
a hug. I speak openly about how nice everyone has been and how excited I am to
be here. I’ve always been so fond of her, and I feel especially affectionate
towards her for coming to check on me. I never realized how much I liked being
checked on until this move. We talk for a few minutes and then I walk her down
the hall.
I head back to our comfortably cramped office and pass by
the Library Director. She and I became instant friends my first day, and it
feels as though we have know each other for much longer than a few weeks. I
glance down at the Alice in Wonderland
quote, “We’re All Mad Here,” tattooed on the inside of her right arm.
The sleeve of my suit jacket covers the Lord
of the Rings tattoo on my left arm, but she knows it’s there. Here, amongst
my colleagues, I find myself surrounded by some unfamiliar faces, with very
familiar souls.
******
This move marks the 15th time in my life that I
have packed up my belongings and filled out a change-of-address form. The city
I called home the longest was Tampa. For 12 years, my zip codes fell snuggly within
the borders of Hillsborough County. I moved to Tampa from Tallahassee without a lot of
thought or planning. I had been finished with my degree for a few years and
knew that, as much as I loved Tally, it was time. I had two requirements: 1) A
city near a university with a good English graduate program, and 2) A city on the
water. That was it. I knew that if I had those two things, I could make it
work. I was 22 – I could make anything work. And I did.
Tampa offered me more than I could have ever hoped for. The
time I spent there was filled with love and excitement and confusion and
sadness. We change a lot between 22 and 35, and Tampa allowed me the
opportunities to explore all my options, to search and get lost, and to search
and get lost some more. I worked in restaurants and met some of my very best
friends, who have since become family. I finished another degree and found my
place in universities where my passion for teaching was nurtured and allowed to
run wild, and I found even more love in the friendships that sustained me
through my professional and personal growth. The bonds we share are
unbreakable, and I thank the Universe every day for them. You see, life in
Tampa was good. It had become consistent, simple, and comfortable. And that’s
exactly why I had to move.
If you’ve read my other blogs, you know that this decision
wasn’t made overnight. Months ago I had no idea that I would be where I am, but
I could feel something coming. Maybe it was intuition, instinct, divine providence…
it didn’t matter what I called it – all that mattered was I knew it was time to
make a change. People spend their whole lives seeking comfort and consistency,
and I am envious of those who crave it. But I’m not one of those people. All of
the searching I did led me here. It led me to the self-realization that I
never, ever want to just be “ok.” I want to be nothing short of delirious. I
want to wake up and feel those raw human emotions that we constantly suppress.
I sometimes feel as though I have two different lives, and throughout
these past few months, I’ve learned what I desire in both. In my professional
life, I need growth and opportunities and support. In my personal life, I need
passion and openness and that life-giving, heart-aching feeling of vulnerability.
My last few months in Tampa were filled with toxic behaviors, and I realized
that none of those would change until I found the fulfillment I was so deeply in
need of. The stars aligned, an opportunity presented itself, and I knew that if
I didn’t make this move, I’d forever wonder about what could have been. So,
with little more than a hope of finding what I most desired, I took the
position and moved across the state. Just like that.
The sadness I felt was palpable. The thought of leaving a
place where I was surrounded by love, and friends, and comfort, and consistency
seemed illogical and reactive. In some ways, perhaps it was. I was filled with
so many emotions, especially fear, but I also felt powerful and strong. For
most people, opportunities like this are rare, so I seized it, and quiet
honestly, closed my eyes and hoped it wouldn’t be the most devastating decision
I’d ever made.
I have just finished my third run of week. I walk into my
apartment and see the blue and gray wall my mother helped me paint when she was
here a few weeks ago. Three glittering Buddha statues greet me as I walk in the
door with my headphones still on. Chris Lake’s remix of “Hold My Hand,” is
playing at a volume that blocks out everything else. I take my shoes off and
open the back door to throw them on the patio. The setting sun is breaking
through the heavy clouds that have been smothering most of the state for days.
The raindrops, still clinging to the blades of grass, appear to be twinkling as
the sun’s rays dance through the tree-line in my backyard. I sit on the patio,
sweating and breathing heavily, and begin to laugh and cry at the same time. A sense of wonder and relief pours over me. It’s just so good to finally see the sun. I wipe my eyes and stare into the
woods. I don’t know exactly what I am looking for out there, but I know whatever it is,
it’s much closer now than it was before. 
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