The sky broke open the day I left home—my mom and I bound up
my life in packing tape as the lights flickered and the storm grumbled
overhead. We held up an umbrella against the blowing rain on the exposed Amtrak
platform, hugged and kissed goodbye, and then I boarded the train alone.
My neighbor had chuckled as we were loading up the car with
my worldly possessions. “Well, here’s to another chapter,” he said, “Which one
is it now? Have you lost track of which one you were on?”
Yes, Larry, I think I may have lost track of the chapters. I
graduated from college, I went to South America, I came back, and then I dug my
feet into my mountains and my home and my heartland. Somewhere along the way I
pushed myself to stop pushing… I immersed myself in family and evergreen
forests and love. I was still, less concerned with definition and demarcation.
I blossomed.
And now it’s time for me to go. Although a part of me longs
to stay sitting forever on the porches of Oregon with a cup of tea, another
part of needs meaningful work. I want to understand my ambition and find a
place for myself in this ridiculous world. I’m moving east, to Boston, to get a
Master’s degree in Theological Studies from Harvard Divinity School.
So the train rocked me through misty, darkened mountains to
Oakland, California, where I’ll be until next Saturday, when I move to New
England. As I rode, the stormy wind in the trees sounded like the whispered
ruffle of pages turning.
The painted hills, Central Oregon
