Letters for Autumn.: we could be consumed.

Today, you rolled over from your tummy to your back for the first time. I cheered so loudly that I scared you and you started crying. But I was so proud! We have been waiting for this. We know that you are strong, and that your little muscles are growing and growing with all the kicking you do, but now! Now you've got moves!

I've been watching you scoot and wriggle across the living room floor on your back for weeks now. You always want to be where you aren't.

Soon, you will be crawling, and then walking, and then running and jumping faster than I can keep up with you. Appropriately, your feet fit into your first pair of sneakers today. They are brown and purple, and you think they are the coolest thing you've seen. You are sitting in your chair laughing at them and swinging them in the air. Smacking them together like Dorothy.

You're on the move. And it's happening fast. Curious little eyes, curious little hands, curious little feet.

There's something you should know about moving. It always takes you one of two places. Somewhere you've been before, or somewhere you have never been. Sometimes, you plan it. You think, I want to go here, and then you do. And sometimes you don't. Like when you rolled over today, and it caught you by surprise.

I've seen you trying. Pushing with all your strength, stretching out your neck and waving your arms. Only to find yourself still flat on your back looking up at whatever is ahead of you. And you seem fine with that. You weren't even sure there was another way to be, but somewhere inside, you knew it was there. And today, you found it.

When I was a little girl, I moved a lot. I lived in a lot of different houses (eleven!). I went to a lot of different schools (twelve!). And I went to a lot of different churches (thirteen!). I was very shy, and sometimes, it was hard to make friends. And even after I learned to make them, it would be a long time before I learned to keep them for good. You have to learn what to take from one place to the next. And what to leave behind.

That is why I am writing you this letter. To tell you about the time your Dad and I moved to California. And what we gained, and we left behind.

When your Dad asked me to marry him, he was living in Lynchburg, Virginia. A busy city that we named over long phone calls, the conservative mountain. He had gone there because he loved school, and they had a big one. A big school that was supposed to let him read all of the important books he wanted, and that was supposed to teach him big ideas for a big world. It was a school that was supposed to show him how to love God, and how to teach other people to love Him too. And he thought, "Even if they make me cut my hair, I'll go to school here. Because here, I will find what I am looking for."

I was still living in Georgia, trying to decide just exactly what it was I was looking for. Which mostly meant, I spent my money as soon as I had it on art supplies and dinner out with friends. I thought I was very artsy...and very friendly.

I painted this giraffe.

giraffe.

...and I drank a lot of coffee.

coffee.

But your Dad and I were not completely satisfied with the way we were living. And it didn't take us long to realize that at least part of what we were looking for was one another. He came back and we had a big party, and I wore a white dress, and all of your aunts and uncles, and your grandparents were there. He picked me up and we moved to the conservative mountain together. I packed all of my things and thought with excitement about how this move to Virginia was going to change my life. It took my car, his car, and a rented truck to get all of my things three states north. We thought, now that we are together, life will be good, and it will be easy to know what we are supposed to do.

But we weren't very happy in Virginia.

I had a very hard time finding a job. And when I did find work, I had to work very long days everyday. We didn't have much money. And the nice big apartment we picked out before we moved, turned out to be pretty lousy. There were noisy dogs, and noisy neighbors who yelled at one another. It didn't matter how many long hot baths I took to relax, or how many nights a week we sat outside of our favorite restaurant with our favorite people, we just did not feel like we were home. And all of those things were a byproduct of the fact that the big school your Dad was going to, turned out to be very different than we had wanted it to be.

After a year, we decided that we needed to move again.

We decided to go to California. Eight states westward. But we couldn't take all of the things we had collected. There were way too many, and a moving truck was too expensive. So your Dad made a brave suggestion. Sell it all, or give it away.

I liked my things. There were things I'd had my whole life, and new things that we had just been given for our wedding. Because I moved so many times when I was little, I held onto things that moved with me. I was nervous. Your Dad was confident. We had a bunch of stuff, and we didn't need any of it, and it was time to leave it behind. Shake the dust off our feet, and move on.

So we had a yard sale in someone else's yard. Sold what we could, and gave the rest away. We packed his little Honda with some clothes and a few special things, and we left Virginia.

First, we went home for two weeks, to say goodbye to family and friends. And driving into Atlanta was exciting. I could start to feel the hum of something new. I could sense the vacuum of routine, and empty days filling itself with hope and excitement. I could hear the world creaking as it opened up like a large gate for your Dad and I to come through for the first time.


Hello, Atlanta. It's good to see you.

We got to see our families, and spend time with our friends. We got to eat at our favorite restaurants.

that was my soup.

And then, we got to drive across the country. Together. We stayed in cheap hotels, and stopped at little diners in the middle of nowhere. We took touristy pictures, and listened to good music.We saw the desert for the first time. We saw so many kinds of desert. Your Dad wanted a picture of a Joshua tree. And I took a picture of this house.

the trees lean over.

Your Dad grew a beard.

...and I caught a tumbleweed.

We saw the grand canyon. It was beautiful, and I was overwhelmed. It was raining when we got there, but we walked around anyway. I was surprised and nervous that there was no guardrail to keep us from falling. It felt symbolic of this new life we were taking a chance on. I always knew there were big and beautiful things in life to be had. But for some reason I had been waiting on a tour guide to walk me through. I had been looking from behind the glass and gripping the guardrails. But here was this big open space that could not be contained or controlled or owned. I was in charge of how far I went, how much I risked. And your Dad was there with me. I felt like there wasn't anything we couldn't do or have. I never wanted to own "stuff" again. I never wanted to belong to my things so much, that I couldn't leave them behind to touch the unknown.

Your Dad took my picture when I wasn't looking, I look scared. And I was, but I was also determined to get to the edge and see out as far as I could.

There is a sensation that happens when you are walking toward something that is bigger than what is behind you. You know it when you feel it. It's like falling, and flying at the same time. And it is exhilarating.

When we got to the end of the trip, and drove into San Francisco for the first time, we were exhausted. We'd driven for eleven hours straight and it was almost two in the morning. The hotel we stayed in the night before didn't have any hot water, so we didn't get to shower. Still, we met your Uncle Gian in the city and made a few more stops before sleeping for the night.

The next day, we found the new school your Dad would be going to. We walked around campus, and drove over to what would be our first apartment in California. It wasn't ready for us to move into yet, but the men who were fixing it up let us in to see it. The view was amazing. I opened all the windows and let the wind in.

We walked around the building to a small lookout and talked about our new place, and our new life.

I didn't know you were coming yet. I didn't know how joy could be multiplied just by sharing it with you. But, I do think this move (the first of many) helped prepare me to love you a little better. It helped me to see the world with new eyes. To appreciate every little thing as a new gift and a chance to learn. A chance to grow stronger and gain perspective.

Like rolling over for the first time and being surprised I could. While all of creation, with arms in the air, cheered me on.