The California Farewell Tour Begins
Earlier this month, we traveled to Pennsylvania for H to interview at two day schools. After a very stressful week and another week of discussions, we made the decision to move back East. We won’t be moving until June, but the mental awareness of how big of a change this will be is just starting to set in.
In the week after we flew home, we were invited to go to Malibu to climb and eat seafood. Not an afternoon trip to be turned down.
We parked and walked onto the sand. We laid out our beach blanket and gear. H hiked up the trail to the top of Point Dume to set the rope. A played in the sand, building little “shops” and a pretend car out of beach debris. I just watched the waves rolling in and out, wondering if this would be the last time we’d ever visit this particular beach, and have this very particular experience.
A few people have asked if I’m ready to leave California. It’s a legit question. I moved here 16 years ago. Most of my adult life, and the important things that come with that time, happened here. My career before I became a stay-at-home mom, our engagement and wedding plans, many of my close friends, every apartment H and I made a home, our camping and climbing experiences, every pregnancy and loss, A’s birth and everything that came with it, my experience of becoming a mother, and all the memories you gather together in your 20s and 30s from happy hours, birthday parties, family time, concerts, and more.
My healing came to me over the past 10+ years. Bike riding and hiking. Becoming someone who exercises and likes to be outside a lot. Embracing things like cyclical living and crystals and tarot cards. Building out our van and being a family that camps. Becoming someone who goes to therapy.
While at the beach, while H and our friend climbed, A and I clamored over rocks and explored around the tide level. As we looked out over the ocean, pods of dolphins were surfacing, their thin fins cutting through the white water. And then, one jumped up, belly to the sky, fully out of the water. I’d never seen that before. It was amazing.
And so the California farewell tour begins, I thought, but that’s not entirely true. I started saying goodbye to California when when I was pregnant with A and we moved from the Venice Beach area to a Los Angeles suburb. A townhome community off the freeway where every unit looked the same, built into super steep hills that I could hardly walk up with my pregnant belly. Where I immediately loved the quiet, but hated the lack of good restaurants and needing to drive everywhere. When my commute became torture and bike riding felt impossible.
My world became even smaller once A was born. I couldn’t leave that little townhome. Couldn’t see friends or get out to dinner with H or even sleep through the night between her little form and my own PTSD.
Moving out to Ojai, where we live now, seemed like it could give me back so much of what I was missing. Nature, hiking, time with my kid, friends, things in walking distance, and a slower pace. But it wasn’t to be. The dry heat here is oppressive for someone who thrives near an ocean and H works all the time. I started craving seasons, cold weather, and family near-by who could help.
And then pandemic, and my life became even smaller.
The less I could do, the more clarity I gained about what I wanted and needed. I want a good space for us to live in, with enough room and a lot of quiet. Help and support with A, which means choosing to live near family. Living close to an airport again so traveling to see family would be easier. Good schools. A job where H has most nights and weekends free. And seasons. I really, really miss seasons.
Leaving California, a state that I’ve grown so much in, that gave me back so much of myself, that holds almost half my life’s memories is not an easy decision, but it feels right. I know the next few months, maybe the rest of 2022, will be challenging, but it will be for the purpose of creating a home we can enjoy as a family for the next chunk of years. Nothing is permanent or guaranteed, but it feels good this is something we’re choosing.
I was able to do one last climb at Point Dume that day, to press my toe point against a tiny clip of rock and pull my weight up through my fingers pressed on more small holds above me. I was determined finish the climb, and at the top, I turned my gaze back over my shoulder to take in the vast expanse of ocean, sky, and coastline. H belayed me down and that was done. We packed up at sunset and ate fried fish and shrimp tacos for dinner. We drove home in the dark and I savored the feeling of salty air and sunblock on my skin.
I know the world, and my life, hold more moments like these, even if they’re not these ones specifically. I know we are privileged to have these experiences and also to be able to choose to relocate our entire lives just because we want to. I am so grateful to SoCal and the years I’ve called it home. I started saying goodbye when we closed the door to our Venice apartment 6 years ago, and I will continue to soak up and grieve my California life until the day in June when we drive out of the Ojai Valley, or maybe forever. But it’s still a choice I’m willing to make.