one giant leap

embracing the free fall/a love letter to starting new

hello, beautiful friend <3

I gathered a few spring blossoms from my walk this morning and left them by your windowsill. I hope you wake to their blushed pinks and pale blues; their cool, early-dawn perfume. 

what was the last thing you did that scared you? has it been a while since you felt your stomach practice acrobatics? or maybe the past few years have been a relentless sprint between obstacles and your nerves are exhausted.

right now, planning a move across the country would be at the top of my list. packing up the last 5 years of my life in Portland and hitting the road. 35 hours, 2,300 miles. 

in truth, I don’t know what my life will look like after I put my car in drive later next week. maybe it’s the act of goodbyes, the explanation of my unhappiness, or knowing my home will soon fade from the rearview mirror, but I’ve been tempted to depart from my life in the city with an Irish exit; only popping up again after unpacking and unwinding in the Midwest. but then again.. this is a big move. though I haven’t talked about it very much out in the world, I know it’s the right one. 

the rip tide of familiarity pulls at my ankles. it wouldn’t be easier, nor more comfortable to stay, but still, there is an appeal to knowing this rodeo. being able to walk downtown without looking up at a street sign. having a favorite biking trail, a cure-all coffee shop. finding a memory in the seams of every corner—the camping spot that holds the mold of my slumbering shape in the ground as if a dusty snow angel, the tranquil marina where Shannon and I would bob her houseboat with laughter, a bar on the northern end twinged with bad stories and fucking excellent fried cheese curds. 

when I moved here, I imagined it would be my last big pilgrimage. a future in the fogged hills, the rain-slicked city, was all I could have asked for. now, I can never quite wave the mist away. I’ve no need for a buzzing hot spot on every street. on a inhale, it doesn’t feel like a full breath in; I can feel the city move against my lungs, the stitching threatening to pop.

if you asked me what I wanted now, I could give you an outline, but no fine details; no color choices, no textures. I do want some quiet. I want more sky, less skyline. the smell of grass. a summer that won’t singe my eyebrows with wildfires. some stargazing. a goddamn diner. I want a winter that’s able to commit to itself; not placate with a third season of rain. I think, for a little while at least, I want to talk a lot less; take my time rinsing the train whistle out of my ears, and process the fact that I trekked 2,000 miles in full. 

my therapist reminds me, “you got what you needed from Portland.” and it’s true. when I arrived, I was 24, married, and switching from one secretary position to the next. by the time I leave, I will be 29, will have written three books (yes, this is a tease), find myself fiercely independent, and will be driving away in a car of my own. I have done beautifully with my time. there are people I love here, there are things I still didn’t get to see, and I’m okay with that. a story left unfinished can be picked up somewhere else. as whiplash as it has been to be grieving and excited, I’m proud of this maturity—understanding even if this is a change I want, that does not make it immune to sorrow. 

it was a beautiful dream for a long time, but it is okay that it’s not what I want anymore. it doesn’t mean I failed. it doesn’t mean I gave up. my happiness doesn’t take place here anymore. I want to find where it does. 

(I’ll keep looking.)

with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
why is moving so expensive fund (venmo): schuylerpeck