So I’ve moved away from Seattle.
I’m okay with this for a number of reasons. I’ve sat through my fair share of traffic. I had a moment in the car this summer, parked on the freeway, where I looked around at all the commuters with indifferent expressions and thought, Oh my word. I don’t think I consider this a massive waste of time anymore. I’m actually, truly, one of those people who considers it completely natural to wile away my life in my vehicle, and I’m not even depressed about it…
It was a poignant moment, my friends.
I burned through two whole cars this summer. As I watched the tow truck wheel away car #2 to the junkyard, again I had thoughts, and they went something like, screw this. I’m buying a bike.
It was painful leaving the life I had cultivated for the past two years. I had good friends, a solid church family. I just miss Washington in general, too. I’ll miss driving over Lake Union every evening on my way home, and I’ll miss my breath catching at the sight of the Olympics and Cascades, Mount Rainier. I’ll miss the lights of Seattle made brilliant by cloudless, black nights. So many things clutter my heart in regard to that place, and I think that’s why I left. It was growing too comfortable. Too dear. I had to start running again.
So I moved back home. It’s been good. It’s quieter here. There’s no bustle and fuss of the city overpowering your senses, making you lose track of what’s important. I had forgotten that I come from a big family, and that I unconsciously crave human interaction, even if it’s simply knowing that someone else is at home, and that I’m not alone.
My sister and brother in law invited me along on their weekend getaway. They run their own business selling their wares. Kevin is an excellent engraver, and also designs beautiful Celtic knot-work designs. You can check out some of his stuff HERE. Staying true to his Scottish heritage, they travel around the Northwest setting up their booth at Highland Games. It’s been awesome camping out with them in their giant box truck, feasting on cold chicken and potato chips, serenaded all day by bagpipes and the sweet, constant whine of Kevin’s dremel. This weekend we traveled to Yachats, OR, for a Celtic music festival. My neighbor was a guy named Shane who was selling, and demonstrating, didgeridoos. Celtic? Probably not. Interesting? Heck yes.
Our first morning we picked up some coffee and sat on a bench overlooking the ocean. As I stared out onto the familiar waters of the Pacific, I emotionally exhaled. It wasn’t so much that I was carrying such a heavy burden…no. I have a good life. The yolk I carry is light. But in the midst of moving, of contemplating the purpose of my life, hearing the sound of the waves crashing against themselves and the unforgiving rocks was like someone familiar slipping their fingers though mine and holding my hand. It was just nice.
It was so good, and I thank my Father for it.