No sooner did I finish writing my “Love Letter to Memphis,” I hopped in the shower and was immediately consumed by two or three thoughts: “home is always somewhere else,” “home is where other people are / home is with other people,” and “I can fall in love almost anywhere / with any place.” I was still thinking about why I feel connected to Memphis and questioning whether it’s a “Memphis thing,” a “me thing,” or an “other person thing.” Mentally, I was undercutting my love of Memphis and starting to see it as a me thing and was mildly pleased that I’ve been able to enjoy so many different places. As someone who is on the precipice of moving to who knows where, I like to think that I’m going to enjoy wherever I land. There are those people who seem miserable or wary of anywhere and everywhere (especially cities), and I’m glad I’m not one of them. They talk about the crime and the grime and the cost and the crowds but they fail to see the riches like the art, architecture, food, and diversity. This is me giving myself a pat on the back for not being quite the malcontent that I pretend to be.
Prior to moving to Memphis, I almost moved to St. Louis. (Prior to moving to Memphis, I had spent my entire life living in Bucks County with a few months in Philly). In St. Louis, I was in the final rounds of interviewing for a VP position and had spent one of my three days in the city looking at potential places to live. I found an awesome bar (thanks to the recommendation of a friend) and discovered several cool neighborhoods. I walked as many places as I could – sometimes for a few hours. I tried to get a feel for the city as a local – it has some very walkable neighborhoods. I left thinking I might like living in St. Louis.
Similarly, about a year-and-a-half ago, I took a trip with a friend down to Savannah, Georgia. We spent our time walking around the city, listening to music, eating, drinking, and we enjoyed a beach day. I loved the sidewalk café culture and the parks with the Live Oak trees covered in Spanish Moss. Shortly after my visit, it was added to the list of places I could live.
I’ve felt this way in Philadelphia, San Diego, Asheville, Chicago, and Baltimore. So maybe it’s not strictly a Memphis thing. And since some of those trips were solo, I don’t think it’s an other person thing. Because I intend to move in a few months, I spend a fair amount of time trying to think about what I’m looking for and what I value (and could I get some of these things just by traveling more). The frustrating part of that self-examination is that I’m finding that those things change depending on the circumstances. As much as I have tried to follow the advice of being the person I want to find (being self-reliant, finding fulfillment within, finding joy everywhere), I have to acknowledge that some things bring me more joy than others and some places have greater access to those things that bring me joy. Additionally, I’ve always had this feeling that the company of others can make geography and occupation less relevant. Home, for me, seems to be with people more than it is with place or buildings.
I guess what I mean to say is that despite trying to convince myself otherwise, I still believe life is meant to be shared. I still believe that with the right person, drudgery becomes more tolerable and joy becomes more enjoyable. With good company, I suspect I could live just about anywhere or several anywheres. That said, as I’ve noticed by placing my dating profile in different cities, I don’t think the reverse is true. I don’t think I could be anywhere and hope to find the right person. St. Louis, Asheville, Memphis, Savannah, and certainly State College feel limited in terms of partnership/companion opportunities – if for no other reason than population density. Philadelphia, DC, San Diego, Chicago, Austin, Seattle, and the Bay Area all seem to be better fits (politically, artistically, spiritually, aesthetically). As an added perk, all of those cities have walkable neighborhoods and towns, are hubs of cultural and artistic expression, and have reasonably good job opportunities. The west coast cities have a few advantages including novelty, access to the ocean and mountains, a slightly more chill vibe, and better weather.
I enjoyed living in Memphis. I also enjoyed living in Philadelphia. I can’t say the same for State College, though I’m sure some fondness will creep in once I leave. I’ve found a good set of friends here. I appreciate them deeply… but so many of the other things I value (live music, walkability, diversity, sunshine, and maybe the opportunity to meet someone) are not here or are not here in abundance. Lots of people love this place, but many of them are visitors who come back on sports weekends to relive their college days in this bubble of a town. I have little interest in that – bubbles feel inauthentic.
Unfortunately, these thoughts walk through the door of my consciousness with a suitcase full of shame (or failure). When you mostly believe (as I do) that happiness and joy are found within and can be found anywhere (should we choose to pay attention), you begin to feel like a failed Buddha with even the faintest hint of dissatisfaction. Because I have not discovered that type of bliss here (at least not without a beer and my friends), I begin to feel that maybe I’m not paying close enough attention. I’ve worked hard to slow down, to get to a point where I don’t need the overt distractions of flashing lights and TV screens or the constant chatter of others to feel fulfilled, yet…. when I envision my future, it’s not alone in a cabin in the remote wilderness (and if it were, I’m pretty sure I’d need a companion by my side). And that right there friends is the crux of the shame part: admitting that in those circumstance I think I would need someone else. I dance around it all the time. I tie myself in knots trying to delineate between need and want. Even now, I find myself mentally arguing that “need” is too strong of a word. I find myself making the case that almost everything I enjoy would be enhanced by sharing it – so why not seek out more things to enjoy and position myself to share those things?
In my neural pathways, this is a road well-traveled, and it’s one that I kinda hate. In the one direction is gratitude and a belief that I have more than enough (I have books and poetry and friends and a job – and even a pretty good dog). In the other direction I look and say this is not enough or I want more than this or…? I know this is a false dichotomy. I know that answers are never just over the next ridge or in the next city or with the next job or with the next partner. I’ve done so much internal work that it feels like a failure to want more than what I already give to myself. I know that desire leads to disappointment which leads to suffering and yet I struggle to break free from this type of dualistic thinking that pits gratitude against a “never enough” attitude. A therapist would probably tell me that deep down I don’t think I’m worthy of wanting more or deserving more out of life. Which would probably piss me off because I’m sure there’s some truth in it.
I loved Memphis, but I’ll probably only go back to visit. I loved Philly, and maybe one day I’ll go back. I once told a friend that I’m afraid of becoming a tumble weed; that once the roots are pulled up, it gets easier to rip them out again. I’ve lived the past three years with much of my life packed away in boxes. I’ve learned to live alone and I’ve learned to carve out a place for myself wherever I am. I’ve gotten good at finding friends among strangers and comfort among chaos. In some respects, having the confidence to be a daisy in the concrete is incredibly liberating. But for a person who has always operated by the principle of getting settled and then exploring, getting to the venue early and then enjoying, finding a base of operations and then striking out… this level of uncertainty is slightly uncomfortable. I don’t expect my next place to be permanent and I don’t expect it not to be. And it’s not because I’m bored or dissatisfied. In fact, it’s almost the opposite. I can love lots of places and lots of things, and until I find the combination that feels most like home, I’m learning to be content with and enjoy the journey.