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Tag: Separations

Upon Leaving Colorado

I sold my stuff, I left Denver… and it felt weird.  Brief reflections upon leaving what was my home for the past 7 years.

Colorado Rockies

Appreciating what Colorado has to offer

Boy, this feels weird. What has been my life for the past nearly 7 years is no longer. I keep having flashes, most of them mundane. A walk around my neighborhood. The inside of a friend’s house. Old hobbies and habits that have been broken. Old belongings that were always just there that are gone now. Mountain treks and favorite little haunts. It’s a very surreal feeling. I spent my time at DIA in a bit of a fog, feeling hungry and nauseous all at once. I miss my people. I miss my life. I know my new life is going to be awesome (or at the very least strange and different), and it’s something I’ve wanted for a really long time. But right now, a part of me mourns the life I’ve left behind. Like, a Santiago’s burrito would be really great right now.

At least the mountains showed up for me on my last day. They rose majestically to the west as we made our way to the airport. Snow-capped and friendly, reminding me that they, too, would still be there if and when I decide to come back to town.

I get really sentimental about change, I guess. I always have. Leaving my first Denver apartment, I was flooded with emotion. At 8th grade graduation, I was the awkward kid sobbing on stage as we performed the choral rendition of “We’ve Only Just Begun.” Despite the fact that we were all going to the same high school, I was feeling sentimental about times past. The memories in that particular building. I know it sounds cheesy, but it’s how my mind works when I move on from one thing to another.

Crying Graduation 90s

Sometimes, you cry unnecessarily at 8th grade graduation. Sometimes, it’s 1997 and you’re wearing a kick-ass choker.

My apartment in Denver wasn’t all that much to speak of, but it was cozy and it was mine. It was full of comfort and warm memories. In fact, some of its best memories were formed in the most recent months. The fact that that time period in my life is over feels very strange to me. That it’s not all just sitting there, waiting for me to return.

On Human Connection

Preparing for the idea of loneliness and maintaining human connection when embarking on a solo, nomadic lifestyle.

My original intent with this blog was to publish one or two posts a week regularly, as that has been known to build and keep your reader base. Then, the impossible (but predictable) happened: I met someone. One month before I was supposed to leave, I met a human. I’m not going to go too deep into that except to say, I met a human and we connected in a way that certainly doesn’t happen for me every day, or year, or probably decade. So, I decided to prioritize. I knew that I was on the precipice of a lifestyle that, while exciting, would be filled with a lot of solitude and plane rides and chances to write. I only had a month (well, I turned it into two) to spend with this new, wonderful human and learn as much as I could about them. In addition, I was obviously also concerned with spending time with all the other pals I was preparing to leave. As a result, I now have a collection of blog posts at various states of completion that will get published a wee bit after the time when they were actually relevant to my process. That’s okay, right?

Tell me it’s okay and that readers who come to this blog later in the game won’t even know the timeline. TELL ME, because being disingenuous makes me itch.

Solitude

As a rule, you’re not alone if you have someone to take your picture.

Though that sort of connection doesn’t happen for me often, I have been known to revel in, hold onto, and some may say place too much importance on human connections in my life in general. I hold onto friends and people that are important to me. I will make all attempts to stay in touch with people, waiting for way longer to give up than most would if not reciprocated. I tend to be sad about leaving even the worst jobs because I will no longer be connected to the people I’ve come to know there. It’s just a part of who I am. I believe that these connections we make change us and better us, and I delight in getting in touch with old friends or people from my past and hearing their stories.

And while I know that I will have no problem meeting people throughout my travels, one of the first things I had to really come to terms with was how lonely this path will be, most of the time.

Bharma Barcelona

If not for meeting cool people when I travel, I never would have been brought to Bharma, the LOST-themed bar in Barcelona.

I will meet people, yes. I will likely have people to drink with or adventure with, or at least small talk with at the local bar, but I won’t have any of my solid compatriots. You know, the easy pals that you can just spend time with without expending too much effort. The people who care about your mundane stories, whose stupid stories you also like to hear. They will all be a world away. In Connecticut, or Oregon, or Colorado, for example. Fortunately for me, I have never been afraid of solitude, but sometimes you just need your people and I will simply not be in most places long enough to achieve such depth in my new relationships.

Luckily, technology prevails, for now. Keeping in touch is easier than ever, and I haven’t lived in the same places as my closest buds for nearly a decade, if not more. I’m not worried about that. It’s the in-person outlets that I’ll miss. The leisurely lunches or happy hours. The local bar where everyone really does know my name. Family, who has no choice but to love you, regardless of how much of a dink you are. They’ll still be a mere Internet away, but I need to prepare myself for this change. After all, think of all the love letters and postcards and care packages that are possible. Vintage romance!

This is okay. I accept this. I know that part of this entire plan revolves around getting me outside of my comfort zone. Lord knows that during my last months in Denver, my productivity was at an all-time low due to my feelings of comfort and happiness being at an all-time high. Instead of maintaining a rigorous schedule, I’d been focusing on and prioritizing nurturing my human connections. I think this is okay too.

Solitude on La Plata peak

Solitude is a state of mind. For example, a new friend was snapping this lonely photo.

One true positive that I haven’t fully addressed yet is the combination of my freedom in time and travel. I have free flights, I have no brick and mortar job requiring my presence. I will be able to move about and see people I wasn’t able to see much of before. On the one hand, things might get lonely. I may feel separated and adrift from my core humans. But, on the other hand, I will be able to see a wider breadth of important people on a much more regular basis.

There are many people I will miss. Unfortunately, I can’t take everyone I love everywhere with me at all times (this is actually probably for the best, I would get nothing done!). I need to have faith that the strong connections will endure and look forward to the wide variety of new weirdos that I’ll meet as I go.

The True Weight of STUFF

Facing the challenge of separating myself from my material things

One of the big hurdles I’ve had to overcome as I prepare to leave Denver is coming to terms with having to detach myself from my physical possessions. I like my apartment. I love having my own space and sitting on my comfortable couch surrounded by books I’ve read, art I’ve picked out, and reminders from different times in my life. It is cozy.

In addition to the sheer comfort of it all, I’ve come to realize (partially on my own, partially fleshed out in therapy) that for me, a lot of this stuff means status. Status as a grown up. Status as a successful human. I have things. I am here.

This realization came to me as I started mentally cataloging all my belongings. I can’t hold on to a lot because it doesn’t make sense to pay for storage, and it would also cost money to move things to my mom’s garage in Connecticut. I figured that all of my things need to fit into three categories: Keep, Sell, and Donate. I noticed myself getting stuck on certain items. You’d think those would be the sentimental things. But they weren’t.

Pottery Barn Couch

The couch in question. The apartment has recently been staged by my wonderful realtors.

A little backstory: I have this couch. This big, beautiful, wonderful couch. It was handed down to me over a decade ago by my uncle who is no longer with us. But that couch was important to me even while my uncle was still alive. It is a Pottery Barn couch. Eight feet of cushy, pillowy, wonder. A couch that on no planet would I ever be able to afford to buy new. Honestly, that couch was the only reason I brought any of my furniture to Denver from the East Coast. I refused to relinquish it, and I figured if I was paying to move the couch, I might as well move the other stuff too. Truth be told, the cost of the cross-country movers was less than the original sticker price of the couch.

The point is, I love that couch A LOT. But, I have made my peace with losing the couch. I am ready. It’s fine. Despite this grand victory, I still found myself hesitating when I came across certain items. My food processor. My complete pots and pans set. My wine glasses.

These are all things that can be easily replaced. For the most part (besides a few certain mugs and glasses that I will tuck away), these things are not tied to anything sentimental. Why the struggle?

Status. For some reason, having a fully outfitted kitchen means something to me. It means that I am an adult. It doesn’t matter that I pretty much only ever make the simplest of meals using one pan and one pot. I can make a damn pesto IF I WANT TO. Oh, you’ve come over and you want some wine? Sip it from my beautiful stemless glassware! Aren’t I the growndest?

Kitchen design

Some kitchen wares. Before staging, I had a lot more STUFF.

This is rooted pretty deep. I’m sure most of us experience a degree of this, but I think it may be a little stronger within me.

Growing up as the child of a single, working-class parent in a very wealthy town, it was easy to draw comparisons between my life and the lives of my friends. Growing up, we were the people that didn’t have STUFF (at least not in the way that friends did). Stuff meant success. Stuff meant not white trash. Stuff meant security.

Those comparisons aren’t much different now when I look at the lives of those same friends. So, I cling to my food processor, I cling to my pots and pans, I cling to my wine glasses. I think about the future. If my endeavors don’t go the way I want them to… or even if they do, but I still have to find a place to settle, there will be a time when I get my new place and I won’t have the stuff. I’ll be back to square one. Dorm-style living. Childish living. To a degree, I am anticipating the judgments of others. It’s enough to make me shudder.

The beauty of realizing this, however, is now I can move past it. I can rationalize my way out of it. Stuff doesn’t really add anything. Stuff won’t make me happy. Stuff is not engaging my life on a daily basis. In fact, to a degree, stuff is holding me down. With every piece I purge, either by selling or donating, I feel a little lighter. Even my beloved couch, which cradles me and gives me support regularly, is holding me down. In order to get anything done, I need to move away from the couch. It is a place of comfort, but not a place of forward momentum. So, I say goodbye to the couch. I say goodbye to the fully equipped kitchen.

I say hello to putting the idea of comfort behind me, in the hopes that being on high alert in new, strange places will ignite something that has long been lying dormant.

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