Something about traveling back to the east coast felt like a reset, like a long and slow contemplation mixed with a dozen tiny anxieties and a half-dozen re-examinations. Driving around the suburbs, reminded me of suburban life: gardens and patio sets in the back yards, home ownership, shade trees, and warm summer night concerts on the nearby farm. It reminded me of a different way of life, of the life I used to live. Or maybe the life I’d still be living. There was a yearning that I couldn’t pinpoint that felt, strangely, like no yearning at all… like wanting everything and not wanting anything at all. Perhaps I was flooded by sentimentality and over-stimulation: volunteering with my former colleagues, driving past the big houses that I always drove past, seeing friends and family, and saying goodbye to a dear friend. The tug of the familiar made it easy to slip into old routines, like a pair of well-worn jeans, trying on that old life to see if it still fits.
On more than one occasion, I felt the heavy hand of dread pressing against my chest and gut. I didn’t want to go to the funeral. I didn’t want to drive into the city to see my dad or find parking in South Philly or drive to the restaurant for dinner. I didn’t want to meet up with the friends who I’ve only seen two or three times in the last twenty years. I didn’t want to go to the airport and return the car and check my bags, and repeatedly, in a bored sort of way, check my phone for my boarding number. Anything that required logistics felt like it was more than I wanted to handle. I wanted someone else to make all of the decisions for me, to take care of all of the details. I wanted to be along for the ride. Navigation made me acutely aware of my independence, my solo-ness on this and every journey, and the occasional burdens and exhaustion of being self-reliant.
Despite bringing some books and my computer and some notebooks, I didn’t read much and I wrote even less. Ever since I got the phone call telling me my friend had died, I had stopped writing down the things that made me smile – which sounds more dour than it is. As with many things, I simply fell out of practice. Maybe I needed a shake-up. Maybe I needed some disruption.
To the people I spent time with, I talked about my mix of love and frustration with living in San Francisco and starting over. I’ve been here for six or seven months. I’ve made some new friends. I’m surrounded by beauty. I’m wary of the dating scene. I’m still looking for work. Spending time with my former colleagues reminded me that I’m good at what I do – which only added to the frustration of not having landed a gig yet. Celebrating a life lost too soon had the strange and almost contradictory effects of nudging me to make more of the life I’m living (being more disciplined and focused) while also paralyzing me into old and unproductive habits (wasting time at the bar, scrolling social media, looking at dating apps).
My first few days back have been a similar study in contradictions: a plucky determination to get my shit together mixed with the tired and unthinking slippage into counterproductive routines. While stopping by my neighborhood bar, I learned that a new acquaintance and budding friend passed away while I was gone. He and I hung out from time to time. We talked about music and concerts. The last time he and I talked was the day I had learned of my old friend’s passing. On that day, my new friend came back out to the pub (something he usually doesn’t do) to check on me and see how I was holding up. It was a kind and thoughtful gesture that I won’t ever get to repay.
As so often happens with loss, I’m spending some time contemplating what matters, the value of memory/memories, and what we carry forward: contemplations that may or may not give way to change, minor erosions, and the slow process of forgetting.