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emily — Thu, 09 Oct 2014 10:00:32 +0000

This week marks four years since I first visited Texas. Four-years- minus-two-weeks since I decided to move to Texas, so maybe it’s subconscious or maybe it’s coincidence that this would be the week I chose to reflect on and write about my trip home.

Each time I leave Austin to re-visit New England, I inevitably re-visit the reasons why I left in the first place, even as those reasons grow fuzzier with time. I tell myself, and I mostly believe, that this is a side- effect of settling: I no longer need to convince myself why it was good that I left. I tell myself that I’ll simply grow comfortable with the ambiguity.

It would be easier if I had left New England because I disliked New England.

I dislike how isolated I felt. I dislike my brain chemistry which makes long winters nearly unendurable. I dislike how faintly I saw what longterm shift work was doing to warp my perception of…everything.

In that way it was good that I left, because I needed to find a way out of the fog. I needed sleep and I needed sunshine, and I needed a chance to start from scratch on some things. I needed to see where I had settled because that was ME and where I had settled just because settling was the easy thing to do. Moving from rural Maine to urban Texas was like hitting a big damn ‘reset’ button, and yes I still believe that it was good.

But I love New England.

Most of my vacation mornings were spent like this: breakfast time with the cats, the house to myself, brewing a fresh cup of coffee, and settling in for a few hours with a book.

This was my first real vacation back home, a chance to be on my own time with my own itinerary. Vacation time is like a bubble that does not so much exist in ‘real life’ but allows you to step outside of real life for a moment and reflect upon it.

It’s not so much a reset button as it is a reminder. What have you left behind?

What have I left behind?

I’ve left behind stillness and quiet. I’ve accepted busyness. I’ve settled into a cycle of draining my energy and replenishing it in bursts, and it is wearing me down bit by bit. Since I’ve been back in Austin I’ve been “hermiting” (as one friend described it), while still being relatively social and occupied, I’ve set much firmer boundaries on my schedule and I’m the most clear-headed, well-rested, and spiritually-centered that I’ve been all year. This is not saying much, believe me – I have so much further to go. But it’s a start, isn’t it?

This was the last trip I took home while still in my twenties. I have no angst about turning thirty – I think it’s a pretty cool milestone – but I find it takes weight in my thoughts despite my lack of strong feelings, and on my last night home (in my childhood home. in my twenties.) I stood and stared in the bathroom mirror and thought that I might come to some big revelation about myself or adulthood or something.

In reality the revelation took its time to settle into place, like a puzzle piece that hasn’t quite found the right edge. Like my decision to move to Texas in the first place.

What have you left behind?

Here’s what I dislike: I dislike the city. I dislike urban life. I dislike packed social calendars and I dislike packed crowds and packed parking lots everywhere all the time, and I especially dislike the phrase “You haven’t done _____ yet?” (Funny, I know, given my very own 30 by 30 is half a list of things that ‘Must Be’ seen in Austin. This is the tension that I find myself balancing: am I doing it because I honestly want to do it, or am I doing it just to say that I’ve done it? Because I’m growing less comfortable with the latter.)

Here’s what I dislike: I dislike having to look past buildings to see the sunrise.

This is not a post about leaving Austin.

…

This is not a post about being homesick.

This is a post about my vacation: going back to a place that I deeply love and doing my best to embrace the uncertainty. I did not leave because I disliked it, I know that now.

I did not move to Austin because I loved everything about it. I know that now, too.

I left because I needed to, and while that part of the path has been clear, the rest is yet to be illuminated. Our lives are a series of seasons, after all, and this is just one of them.

For the past four years I have wrestled, often very verbosely (and repetitively) on this blog, about my “acceptance” of life in Austin. I have articulated the culture shock and welcomed the change in lifestyle pace, and I’ve even spammed my Facebook wall with all the reasons that Austin is ‘awesome’. For the past two-and-a-half years I have tried to make that puzzle piece (“Why I Moved to Texas”) find just the right edge, because if I could only settle in the right way then yes, of course, it would be clear why – of all places – I landed HERE. Of course I was honest in my reflections at the time. I always try to be honest in my writing. But omniscient I am not, so here is my current and honest reflection: I’m starting to think all that time was spent chasing the wrong goal. I’m no longer hung up on naming Austin as my home.

Austin is awesome. New England is awesome. Lots of places are awesome.

What have you left behind?

Nothing that I can’t take with me. I have left behind people and I have left behind places: I have accepted that as a reality of moving. But I did not leave behind my need to be a person of stillness and quiet in a relatively nonbusy life. I’ve been back barely a month and it’s been surprisingly difficult. I have to say ‘no’ to things. I have to find and set my boundaries. I have learned to simply say (most often to myself) “That’s not for me.” Maybe this is all about turning thirty and finding the right way to settle – not into a place, but into myself as God has made me. I am, by His grace, a work in progress. So while I still push myself to Go Out and Do, more often now I push myself to stop and reflect: are you doing this because you honestly want to, or are you doing it just to say that you’ve done it?

Because if I don’t ask myself that question, what I’m leaving behind is ME.

You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it’s all right. ~ Maya Angelou

How to Fly Home in Twenty-Six Hours or Less

emily — Thu, 11 Sep 2014 18:00:08 +0000

or, the reverse chronology of my vacation starting with the
most ridiculous trip ever

I’m a fairly seasoned traveler. I’ve experienced my share of late flights, lost luggage, and frantically running to the gate while praying that your slip-on shoes don’t go flying off ahead of you. I’ve navigated labyrinthine airports and illogically labeled gates and spent more than one night trying to coax some measure of comfort out of unforgiving terminal furniture (which gives me perspective enough to say that Charles de Gaulle Airport is the worst).

So keep all of that in mind when I say that my most recent travel…mishap…is beyond anything I have experienced before, and while the airline has since made their amends with a travel voucher I have compiled the series of events for both my own reference and for your enjoyment. Because this totally happened.

Saturday

12:30pm: Arrive at the airport a little over an hour before our scheduled take-off from Boston, heading to Dallas where I’ll catch my connecting flight to Austin. Having flown out of Logan numerous times, I know it can be pretty busy and I am slightly worried that I’m cutting it too close to the flight.

Hindsight says: hahahahahaHAHAHAHAHA

12:50pm: We’re due to start boarding, but the previous flight’s passengers have only just begun disembarking the plane. We assume it’s just a minor delay on their end, cutting things tight for those of us with connecting flights, but what can you do? Air travel is a fickle beast.

There is no communication from the airline reps.

1:25pm: We should have already taken off. After continued silence from the airline representatives at the desk, the screen behind them changes to show the delayed takeoff: 2:20pm.

2:00pm: We still haven’t boarded our flight. There is no communication from the airline reps.

Passengers who have been watching the windows say that they’re working on the plane’s landing gear (front wheel) and it doesn’t look like they’ll be done anytime soon. Someone claims to have seen “black stuff” pouring out of the front wheel area when the plane landed.

2:20pm: Another change on the board shows another delay. We’ll now be taking off at 3:30pm.

2:55pm: We still haven’t boarded. There is still no communication from the airline reps. Passengers who have actually gone up to get answers say the employees are being evasive, but the general gist of it is that they do not have the equipment on-hand to repair the landing gear. There are some sources saying that the equipment will need to be flown in from elsewhere.

Now the board changes to show the latest delay:

3:30pm: Another delay. We’re taking off at 8pm and my connecting flight from Dallas to Austin, having been bumped several times already, has been rescheduled for Sunday morning.

(All FB posts are in CST, though events happened in EST. Hence the time discrepancies.)

With these new travel changes in mind, I get in line to ask about vouchers for food and/or a hotel room.

It’s a very, VERY long line.

I cannot emphasize this enough: the reps were not saying anything. No announcements, no explanations. N-o-t-h-i-n-g. Just twice having us come right up to the time of boarding and only notifying us of the changes by updating the screen behind the counter. They seemed nice enough, but the sense that we were in limbo was incredibly frustrating.

4:35pm: I’ve been in line for an hour. I’m still half a dozen people from the front. The board changes again…

Within ten minutes, I’ve spoken to a rep and they’ve got a group of us on a new flight leaving Boston at 7:15pm. I’ll still be spending the night in Dallas, but at least I’ll be closer to home. I’m choosing to view this as progress. We’re given vouchers for dinner, so I feed and caffeinate myself before settling in for another wait. Throughout all of this, my family continues to be amazing.

6:30pm: A storm rolls through, and grounds us until 8:30.

7:30pm: The fire alarm starts flashing. No one does anything. There are no announcements. The lights continue to flash for at least 10 minutes.

7:50pm: The screen reads that our flight (which should start boarding at any moment) is still ‘on time’ but it becomes clear that’s probably not happening.

8pm: the board changes. Flight cancelled.

Word among the passengers is that our bags have already departed for Dallas, and while that turns out not to be true, the damage is done. People are angry. There is no announcement from the airline reps.

Several looong minutes pass. Rumor has it that our flight has “no crew.” Then we hear, from one of the reps standing near edge of the crowd, that we’re not leaving because the pilot is too tired to fly. Oh, and don’t forget the part where they sent another plane on to Dallas with 27 empty seats because there were more than 27 of us (and an airline would never make arbitrary decisions about seating spare passengers). One passenger expresses his anger very loudly and rudely, and is escorted out of the airport. We also hear from the rep that, while the fire alarms is activated, the PA system doesn’t work. My brain is almost too tired to process any more ridiculous information, but that still doesn’t explain the lack of announcements FOR THE PAST SEVEN HOURS.

8:40pm: Over eight hours after arriving at the airport – I learn that I do have my bag, and a hotel room for the night, and a flight to Dallas at 7am. My connection to Austin will have me home around 2pm. I grab my bags and wait for a shuttle to the hotel. By the time I settle in, it’s well after 10pm.

Sunday

5am: After a glorious four hours of sleep, I’m back on a shuttle to the airport. With my airline-provided food voucher I get a coffee and a yogurt cup, and I hope that this is the last time I have to settle into these horrid terminal chairs.

6:30am: By the time I finally board the plane, I’ve been in Boston for 18 hours. To the travelers with whom I have harrowed this past day together, I exchanged brief waves and tired nods. I’ve never been so happy to be cramped onto a plane.

10:30am (CST): Dallas, at long last.

I find myself glad for the slightly longer layover, because the DFW Airport is laid out like some bizarre infinity symbol and I have to take a train to get to my correct terminal and also…

…what is this thing? Is that a castle?

12:30pm: This is it. It’s actually happening.

2:30pm: I arrive home, greet my cats, and drop face-first into my bed to sleep for the next 18 hours. HA!

I’m glad to be home to my space and my girls, but the fridge is empty and I’ve got to get things together before the workweek begins, so I venture out to the store where the kind and friendly cashier asks,

“So how was your weekend?”

Spider Ride

emily — Wed, 25 Apr 2007 12:00:16 +0000

When I climbed into my car this morning, there was a small spider sitting on the outside of my windshield. I left him alone, figuring he’d tumble off once I picked up the slightest speed.

But he stayed on. As I sped up, he hunkered down to face the wind. I couldn’t fathom what was holding him on, yet there he remained. Every time the car would slow, he’d adjust a little, maybe turn around, but once the speed picked up he’d resume the position, head to the wind like a racehorse jockey.

I wondered: do spiders blink? Because I don’t imagine that the wind in those multiple eyes could be very comfortable. Then again, it was probably better than having it blown up your butt.

As we neared the highway, I began to worry. The speed limit is 55, and there was no way he could withstand that velocity. There was also no way for me to save him. Not if I wanted to get to church on time…

The spider had suddenly occupied the whole of my attention, but I didn’t try to name him. It seemed awfully trite, like naming an animal you’re about to eat.

And then just before I sped up, he turned. Oh no. I couldn’t. Not with him staring at me just before…you know.

I knew very well the only reason I was tolerating this spider was the pane of glass between us. What was I going to do – pick him up and bring him to safety? I shuddered at the thought.

The car began to pick up speed. He flattened himself, but still held on. Every once in awhile, a leg would fly up, but with agonizing determination he pulled it back down and still held on.

A mile. Two miles. The draft began to lift his abdomen, and I was suddenly nauseated by the thought that I was hurting him.

Don’t be ridiculous! Spiders can’t feel pain!

But there he was, a hapless passenger on my windshield, fighting a losing battle to hold his ground. It was Sunday, God’s day. Earth Day to boot. And I could barely believe what I did next.

I slowed down.

For a minute, he didn’t move. Was he dead? Don’t be silly; spiders’ legs curl up when they die. I worried. And then he moved, picked himself up and resumed his jockey position. That’s the way we rode (we, she says) nearly all the way to church.

As my car slowed to a crawl in downtown traffic, he began moving further up the windshield and disappeared from my line of site. I pulled into the parking lot, found a spot, and as I was climbing out (I kid you not) I looked for the spider. There he was, in the crevice between frame and door.

Safe.

Happy Earth Day, Mr. Spider.