On leaving home

Should I stay or should I go?

It’s a warmin’ up.

I’m set to head out once more in a day or two for Charleston, South Carolina, to partake in the annual Cooper River Bridge Run.

Perhaps it is because the buds are just starting to show, or because the air has demonstrated it won’t be so bitterly cold for much longer, or because I like playing video games intermittently, but for the first time in all my years traveling to and fro, I’d almost rather stay home.

I say almost not because I’d rather leave, but because I’m unsure, and cannot say definitively what I’d rather do. Charleston certainly makes a good case: 80-degree days, palm trees, ocean air, ever-increasing water temperatures, hot women . . . But home has got something I can’t quite put a finger on. Maybe it’s comfort. Maybe I’m comfortable. I mean, I’m definitely comfortable. But I’m also making good progress out here. Out here? No. Here. Charleston is out there. Here, right where I am, is home.

The pup chillin at home.

I thought for a while, for a good many years, that I’d make Charleston my home. I don’t know how long I was set on that, and I don’t know exactly the day that I reconsidered.

It must have been on my most recent drive back, when I was about 3 hours away, speeding up Indiana’s I-65. I do recall, now, thinking to myself at that moment, Chicago wouldn’t be all that bad, actually. I don’t know why I thought this, though, seeing I wasn’t even in Illinois, seeing I hadn’t even been in Chicago for at least three months.

Perhaps something else was going on at that moment. Perhaps forces outside of my understanding were at work. Perhaps it was just at that moment when things first sprouted. Because this couldn’t have been the start of it. No. Surely, it started—the seed was planted, the call was made—the second to last day of August, the day my Dad died.

It’s taken a while for me to figure out what’s going on, to decipher these cryptic messages the universe sends intermittently. And, if I’m being honest, I’ve still not sorted it all out yet. There are still some things that don’t make sense. There still lurks a cloud of uncertainty in my path.

But almost every day, things become ever more clear . . .

I don’t want to move home permanently. I’m not totally ready. If I had to say it out loud, at least today, that is what I would say. I don’t want to come home. But part of me does.

Charleston has always been mystical to me, enchanting beyond the articulable. I had wanted to live there for a long time. Practically since my parents first brought me as a boy. It’s just got something that no other place has. There’s just something about it. And to leave it behind, I’ve got to admit, feels like, I don’t know, a failed mission?

Because there are some things I haven’t done out there. Some doors I’ve left unopened. Some dreams I’ve left unfulfilled.

I still don’t really know how to surf. I’ve still never gone night fishing for hammerheads. I still never camped on the beach. I still never took my own paddleboard out into the marsh. I’ve still never collected, opened, and enjoyed Charleston oysters. There remains a host of things I wish I could have done and tons more that I’d love to do over and over and over again.

There are some things I did do, though.

I did, as I had wanted to for so many years, graduate from the College of Charleston. My dream school! Woohoo!

And my father was there to see it. I think sometimes it is partly for this reason he is gone . . . he saw that he had done his job and that I would be okay . . . that he had taught me most everything he could. Of course, it’s not exactly like me graduating college killed him. I suppose it could’ve kept him around, though. He did always say that people die when they retire.

I also made many friends in Charleston, friends from all over, people I’d never have otherwise met, with whom I shared experiences I’d never have otherwise had, some of who will remain a part of my story for life. I only wish I had done more to capture these experiences, baking them as permanently as possible into some document to which I could always return and see and cherish.

It’s crazy, you know, just how many people come into your life. And just how few stick around for the long run. It’s not anyone’s fault, you know; this is just how life goes! I’ve had the best, best friends throughout these years . . . I’ve shared, truly, the most intimate of experiences with people. And I swear to you, I’ll not talk to the majority of them ever again. What a tragedy! Even though I’ve severed certain ties intentionally, life itself has severed far more. Most of those I lost touch with simply took different paths. This must be the price I pay for moving around so much. This must simply be the nature of my life—the life of a boy with his eye on the horizon.

There’s more, though; I’ve done even more things in this city I love so deeply.

I’ve caught sharks, stepped on a shark, paddle boarded next to a shark, danced on tables, loved women, passed classes, answered questions, scored goals, seen dolphins and manatees and stingrays, unhooked birds and turtles from fishing lines, worked for a kayaking company, delivered food to corporations and stoners, met people from all over the world, watched gators, witnessed car-jackings, had surgeries, been cut open by barnacles, longboarded down parking garages, waged war on cockroaches, chased lizards, broken bones, botched presentations, endured hurricanes, been haunted on, been stung by jellyfish, been blessed, been lonely, been scared, been hopeless, been intoxicated, been punched in the face, celebrated wins, couch surfed, thrown pumpkins from balconies, talked shit, embarrassed myself . . . made a man of myself.

I’ve done all these things, and many more, many that I wish I could recollect and store away so I may witness them again and show those I love, like a little boy showing his parents what he drew at school that day, what I have done. Because I believe I’ve lived, just as my father believed he did, a truly magical, blessed life. I’ve had so many of these most crazy experiences.

Indeed, I admit, each day, many days, can be and have been boring and sad and lonely and hard and mundane. But when I take a step back and recall my experiences, I see all this beauty that’s sprouted from what’s going on at the surface. It is truly the case that I’ve done, in many ways, exactly what I’ve always wanted to do, and had many of the experiences I might assume were only capable on stage, in cinema. Not to mention, I am so very proud of who I am, and I am only who I am for (in addition to my loving family) these experiences I’ve had, these risks I’ve taken.

Gotta take risks.

No matter what I do, which step I take next, it is the case that I’ll do right by myself, and hopefully by my loved ones . . . It’s true that no matter what I do next, there will be for me tons more of these most incredibly mystical experiences.

But how could I leave Charleston? How could I leave behind the place that contributed so profoundly to who I now am? How could I leave when I feel like I’m still in the midst of my mission?

I like being home, you know. I do. Really, I love it, actually, almost more than I ever have.

Back in the day, when I first started writing, and even up until last year, I would write (never published) hit pieces on the suburbs. Because I did not like the suburbs. I thought the suburbs were a perfect model for everything that was wrong with the world. But, man, I don’t know what’s happened! Something has changed within me! Is it because I can traverse these streets more freely, now that I’m out of school? Is it because I’ve worked myself into a routine I love? Is it because I’ve realized firsthand just how important my relationships are? Or maybe because I plan on starting a home garden this summer?

It is, without a doubt, in part because I live more slowly than ever out here. I feel in many ways like I can be a part of things. Of course, things will have to speed up eventually—it won’t be long before I’m spending more time working—but I can still be a part of things out here in the suburbs in a way I can’t be a part of them in a city. And it’s not just any suburbs; it’s my suburbs. I’m bonded to this place in the most unbreakable of ways. I have these relationships, these friends here, friends who know me, who knew my father, who know my family, with whom I have shared myself all my life. I went to school here, I’ve smelled smells here, heard birds chirp here, seen coyotes, caught catfish, scored even more goals, camped in the forest preserve, ding-dong-ditched, danced, cried, laughed my ass off in drive-throughs—stoned out of my mind with my bestest of friends . . . It is in these sorts of things, these sorts of ways, that the most meaningful, irreplaceable of connections, often taken for granted, grab hold of you, unwilling to ever let go.

I am safe, grounded here. My story is here.

I’ve thought much about slow living throughout the past however many months. Because it is slow living, I’ve come to realize, that makes life worth living. Most everything we do, everything we chase, is in an effort to live more slowly. But most of us never slow down. Most of us are hardly able to fully appreciate these mystical experiences I’ve spoken so highly of simply because we believe perpetually that the magic lies not before us but ahead of us, on the horizon.

What’s confusing about this all—perhaps the one thing that makes the least sense to me right now, is that I’d never have been able to fully appreciate my home (nor my father) if I’d never left it (if he’d never left me), if I’d never experienced life without it. And part of me worries that I’ll once more come to loathe it should I return.

I don’t know. Maybe I just need to leave Charleston for a bit. A lease in Chicago is certainly not permanent. And it’d certainly be a good time, rife with things I’d otherwise never experience!

But no matter what I do, the fact of the matter is that I’m sacrificing something, leaving something, some potential reality, behind.

Perhaps the greatest sacrifice here—the thing I know I’ll leave behind if I come home—is the act, the routine of leaving things behind. As chaotic as it is, as much as what I deeply want and need in various ways is permanence, I’ve still got this young buck energy (I don’t know what else to call it), this desire to regularly embark on new adventures . . . either because it is exciting or because I have a deep-rooted fear of commitment.

Indeed, for all my wandering, I’ve made my life miserable in all the ways imaginable. But I absolutely love who and what I’ve become as a result of listening to my heart rather than my head. I am so grateful for the experiences I would not’ve had if I had done what “makes sense.”

The act of leaving things behind, I admit, is near-religious, magical, and beautiful each and every time, compelling me both to appreciate what I’ve just experienced and look forward to what lies ahead. I like going out into the chaos of the world and returning home intermittently to slow down. You can’t spend all day in the house, you know? A house isn’t meant to be an entire world. Just a part of it.