MOORHEAD

I was just trying to update my Instagram bio.

“Just moved back to the Fargo-MOORHEAD area.”

I didn’t intend for Moorhead to come out as MOORHEAD. I clicked back to MOORHEAD and tried typing it again, but before I could click the X that stops your phone’s autocorrect suggestion, it changed itself back. MOORHEAD.

And since I read into everything in my life, I started to wonder about MOORHEAD. When had I typed MOORHEAD instead of Moorhead? Why was it defaulting to this all-caps, seems-like-you’re-screaming version of my new city? Why did seeing MOORHEAD make me want to giggle but also burst into tears? It’s like my phone was trying to tell me, “Hello! Why yes, you are in MOORHEAD. Yes, not only in Minnesota, but MOORHEAD! MOORHEAD. You live nowhere else in the world but MOORHEAD.”

When seemingly insignificant things like this happen (again, I was just trying to update my Instagram bio with where I live and a few new emojis) and cause me to pause (I spent about 10 minutes staring at MOORHEAD, before I decided I should sit down and write something about it ), I often take them as signs to look more closely at something. To pay attention, to dig deeper, to search for meaning. I can take a sentence I overhear, or a 30-second conversation with a barista, or a photo of feet amongst leaves and make it into a reflection on my Enneagram type or love life or vocational life -- sometimes all of those, at the same time.

I took my iPhone’s autocorrected capitalization as an invitation. An invitation to think about the fact that I do, in fact, live in Moorhead. Not Portland, Oregon; a location that I chose, that shaped me, that became a defining part of my identity for five years. A location that became home and that, from the very beginning, a location I wanted to shout from the rooftops in capital letters. PORTLAND! I’m moving to PORTLAND! Even before jumping in a U-Haul without cruise control to make the 1500-mile drive, even before arriving at that first apartment, even before walking to the Starbucks down the street to upload that first blog post, I adopted an identity of Moving to Portland. It was part of my family’s Christmas letters to acquaintances. It was my Current City on Facebook. It was a place on a map that transformed into home, that transformed my life.

Now, I’m navigating a whole new set of life circumstances not in Portland. In July, I hopped in my car and drove across the country and now -- I’m living in Moorhead. It’s been a big-yet-calm shake-up over the last six months. And I haven’t written a thing about it, except maybe an Instagram post in August. A lot of life has happened in these six months and I’ve kept some of it at an arm’s length. My excuse has been because this transition is still happening. It’s not like you move to a place and then the adjustment and feelings and challenges are done the moment the last box is unpacked. The complicated mourning and the bittersweet celebrating don’t find their own places in a drawer as your kitchen knives do. The feelings of, “What the hell did I just do?!” don’t leave your heart at the same time you recycle your last cardboard box. A transition is ongoing and constant and very, very present. Even with all the goodness in it, navigating it can be overwhelming. And lonely.

I started this blog when I lived in Portland. I’ve been a scattered writer over the last four-ish years, letting other good things (friends and love and work and school) and not-as-good things (Netflix and depression and doubt and loneliness) get in the way of tending to this space. This space of writing, reflecting, sharing, repeating the process. And yet these posts, though rare, have made me feel more connected; to myself, to my own life, and to others, somehow. They’ve made me feel less alone in the navigation of difficult change and huge hurts, and in the celebration of small wonders and huge awe.

And so, here I am. And here’s a reintroduction of this little space on the Internet -- with a new look, a new location, a new-yet-same author.

I’m going to accept the little invitations that come my way to remember Portland, through texts and songs and middle-of-the-night memories, to think about Portland, to write the countless stories about the life I lived there. And I’m going to listen for the call to think about and reflect on and wrestle with my life now -- right here in MOORHEAD. Because these invitations are everywhere, if we want them to be -- even in our Instagram bios. They’re in conversations with strangers and friends, street signs and radio commercials, all that we see and hear and feel, if we open ourselves to them.

Here’s to accepting the invitations of our lives. Thanks for accompanying me as I open mine.

life update.

I have moved a lot in my life. I counted once, before my last few moves in Portland. It was in the ‘teens when I took into account my shifts between residence halls and study abroad experiences in college (which I absolutely do). I’m used to moving and I’m actually quite good at it. The sorting and packing and schlepping things from one place to another, the unpacking and organizing and breaking down boxes. I know that moving always involves one 12-hour day when I make a 30-minutes-before-closing trip to Target to stock my kitchen with hot sauce and paper towels. I know that I need to make my bed almost right away after arriving in a new home; I know that it will take me three tries until I get my kitchen organized the way I like it; I know that I will, inevitably, forget to change my address for at least one credit card account. I know what to expect from a first night in a new home and in a new place; the way it doesn’t quite feel familiar and yet you know you’ve come home.

My last few moves have been mostly easy. Moves that coincided with a new job and a new rhythm for my day-to-day life -- bigger shifts than just changing my address and neighborhood. But for the last five years, there were things that remained the same during these moves. My community. My Life Wife. My city. I held tightly to what, and who, remained stable through these shifts, to what kept me grounded in the midst of change. To what keeps me grounded, still.

You can guess where these sentences are headed, yes? I’m moving. Not across town this time. Across states. To Fargo! Or, Moorhead, Minnesota, rather. I’ve accepted a position in Residence Life at Concordia College. At my alma mater.

And in my hometown. It was both surprising and so easy to choose this place after five years of being 1,500 miles away. I will be 10 minutes away from my mom, Gerard, and pet-siblings. I’ll be able to help my grandparents with their gardens (yes, that’s plural because they have two of them) this summer. I can take my goddaughter on after-school dates and celebrate birthdays in-person and hang out with my cousins more than just once a year. I’ll get to know my family as an adult. To repair and grow and nurture relationships that deserve to be attended to up close, face-to-face. I’ll get to know my hometown as an adult. It’s a different place from when I left it in 2013. I’m a different person, too.

When I told my pastor I was moving, she pulled me into a hug and said, “I’m just so excited for you! And I’m so, so sad!” And this rang the most true for me and has stuck with me -- in one breath, I’m describing my new job and apartment and adventure, picking up pace and pitch as I talk about all that is to come. In the next breath, I’m teary-eyed after someone’s asked how I’m doing, as I envision all of the lasts that are so close to arriving right in front of me. All of this is hard. It’s confusing. I am so excited. I am so sad.

I’ve known this news for awhile now. I’ve largely sat on it, quietly telling folks as they’ve asked and as I’ve needed to in order to make arrangements for the next steps: my last day at work, how I’m moving my bones across the country, what I want to do before I leave Portland. Even as someone who writes, I did not want to share this news in this way. It didn’t feel authentic to do a blanket “Life Update!” post on Facebook, sharing the news of this very personal life shift so publicly. As an Type 2 on the Enneagram, I felt a bit nervous about writing a whole post about *me* and *my future* to a bunch of y’all that didn’t even ask for that update. Instead, I dreamed of writing letters, or even just sending personalized text messages, to every human I’ve interacted with in Portland who has made an impact on me in my almost-five years here. Goodbyes and transitions are a beautiful time to do that, to dredge up all the memories and feelings and sap I can muster. To remind your people of how much they mean to you. Y’all know I love that mushy shit.

But that is not the reality of my life.

The reality is that I will spend the next week hauling ass to finish my graduate degree. I’ll spend most of my free hours in yoga pants cross-legged on my couch, squinting at the computer screen as I toggle between Google Docs and the Purdue Owl tab to write my final papers. I will spend the next month tying up the loose ends of my work, having last one-on-ones and writing a transition report and holding this duty phone for the last two times. And the small-but-biggest gaps in between those things will be filled with selling furniture, celebrating a graduation, hosting my family in Portland, and writing myself sticky notes so I remember to eat and shower.

It’s not the most idyllic way to end years in Portland -- no bucket list, no extravagant trips or hikes or adventures. I was bitter about it at first; I had these grand plans of what my last days would look like, all of the things I’ve never done in this city that I would squeeze in before I left. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that if I haven’t done it yet, it’s probably not important to do now. It feels right and beautiful to end my time in Portland just living my regular life -- keeping on with the small-yet-so-very-meaningful things and relationships that have made up my last years here. The students and colleagues and meetings and even the homework and emails and mundane tasks that have filled up my days as I discerned this move, this new job, this shift away from what I’ve come to know and embody and love for the last five years. And that’s enough for me, actually. What these next few weeks hold will be enough -- perfect in its own way. I think, more than anything else, Portland has taught me that. Whatever I am doing, wherever I am, is enough.

So, I sit here on my couch -- in yoga pants and squinting, yes -- sharing this news. Feeling excited. Feeling sad.

To all of my Portland people -- I hope you’ll join me on Saturday, June 23rd for a going away gathering. I’ll be posted up at Laurelhurst Park from 2:00-6:00pm. There will be blankets and picnic tables and food and drink. I love potlucks, so bring a potluck item or drink to share if you’re able. I hope you’ll swing by, even for five minutes, for a hug and conversation and a drink. Here’s the link to a little invitation I made. And if you can’t make it, that’s okay, too. Life is busy. I’m a pretty good pen pal even though I’m the worst texter. I’ve taken a fondness for random phone calls. I actually listen to my voicemails. So even if I don’t see you before I pack my life into my car, please stay in touch.

And to my community in Fargo-Moorhead -- Here I come. I’m ready to start scheduling coffee dates. :)

2017 in books.

I set out to read 52 books in 52 weeks this year. As someone who works full-time and goes to school mostly full-time and also appreciates a good, long Netflix binge, I wasn't sure if it could happen. But last night, I curled into a blanket and stayed awake until 12:30 in the morning to finish my last book of the year, a murder mystery by Gillian Flynn. So I did it. That was number 52.

I have a lot of reflections on this year of reading. About discipline, and falling into habits, and creating new ones, and redefining and relearning solitude, and what it means to spend time. And I have a lot of reflections on this list of books, too. I realized that I read a lot of books about death (The Year of Magical Thinking, When Breath Becomes Air, The Bright Hour); in some ways, that seemed fitting for 2017. I finally dug into collections of poetry (Citizen, Salt, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude) that, in other ways, restored my faith in 2017. I realized that I can read mysteries and thrillers, but still can't watch horror movies. I unashamedly read self-help books and young adult novels and memoir, and read even more of some of my favorite authors (Rob Bell, Anne Lamott, Roxane Gay), their books lining my shelves. And maybe most importantly, I realized that it doesn't matter what you like to read -- non-fiction or sci-fi or historical biographies -- as long as you read. Or not read. What matters is that you spend your free hours doing something that is good to you; maybe that is reading 52 books, or hiking 52 hikes, or doing 52 of literally anything that makes you smile/light up/feel true to yourself. What matters is that you spend your time enjoying your life.

And I loved this year of reading. The hours sitting in my bed or on my couch or at my desk, in coffee shops and the library and in bookstores. The stories and feelings and voices that met me each time I opened a book, started a chapter, read through the acknowledgments and dedication. I've kept track of every book I've read in a spreadsheet since I was a 9th grader to remember these moments, these words and titles, but I wanted to put this year in books in a separate list here. To remember, and to maybe add a few new titles to your lists, too. They're listed in the order that I read them, and then I added my top three below.

2017 in Books:

1. The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion
2. When Breath Becomes Air, Paul Kalinithi
3. The Art of Memoir, Mary Karr
4. There Is No Good Card for This, Kelsey Crowe & Emily McDowell
5. Wherever You Go, There You Are, Jon Kabat-Zinn
6. Salt, Nayyirah Waheed
7. Citizen, Claudia Rankine
8. A Prayer Journal, Flannery O'Connor
9. Furiously Happy, Jenny Lawson
10. Scrappy Little Nobody, Anna Kendrick
11. The Marriage Plot, Jeffrey Eugenides
12. Love Warrior, Glennon Doyle
13. How to Be Here, Rob Bell
14. Hallelujah Anyway, Anne Lamott
15. Shrill, Lindy West
16. The Practice of the Presence of God, Brother Lawrence
17. The Courage to Teach, Parker Palmer
18. The Odd Woman and the City, Vivian Gornick
19. The Mindful Path to Self-Compassion, Christopher Germer
20. The Tao of Leadership, John Heider
21. The Girl on the Train, Paula Hawkins
22. Why I Wake Early, Mary Oliver
23. You Are Therefore I Am, Satish Kumar
24. Difficult Women, Roxane Gay
25. Upstream, Mary Oliver
26. Talking as Fast as I Can, Lauren Graham
27. Where'd You Go, Bernadette?, Maria Semple
28. Hunger, Roxane Gay
29. What is the Bible?, Rob Bell
30. Sex Object, Jessica Valenti
31. The Dream of a Common Language, Adrienne Rich
32. Into the Water, Paula Hawkins
33. On Living, Kerry Egan
34. The Inner Voice of Love, Henri Nouwen
35. The Bright Hour, Nina Riggs
36. Dog Songs, Mary Oliver
37. The Princess Saves Herself in This One, Amanda Lovelace
38. The Sun and Her Flowers, Rupi Kaur
39. Everything, Everything, Nicola Yoon
40. Turtles All the Way Down, John Green
41. No One Belongs Here More Than You, Miranda July
42. The Sabbath, Abraham Joshua Heschel
43. Make It Happen, Lara Casey
44. Braving the Wilderness, Brene Brown
45. Manual of the Warrior of the Light, Paulo Coelho
46. We Are Never Meeting in Real Life, Samantha Irby
47. Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, Ross Gay
48. The Child Finder, Rene Denfeld
49. Caribou, Charles Wright
50. Unbelievable, Katy Tur
51. Devotions, Mary Oliver
52. Dark Places, Gillian Flynn

2017's Top Three:

1. The Bright Hour, Nina Riggs
2. Upstream, Mary Oliver
3. When Breath Becomes Air, Paul Kalinithi

I'm not sure I'll read 52 books again in 2018. I have more classes to take and a thesis to write and maybe a new hobby to start or resolution to make. But I went to the library this morning to stock up again, picking up four books I might try to read while in Fargo over the next five days. It's unlikely, but I'm grateful that -- among other things -- this year of reading left me wanting to read more.

we live in the both/and.

I arrived in Fargo in late July expecting my usual greetings from two overly-excited pups: face-licking and arm-nudging and attention-seeking and invasion-of-personal-space. Instead, I was greeted by one still-excited pup (Cali, the one attacking my face in this photo) and one very not-himself pup (Gunnar, hidden by my legs). Gunnar was too tired to get up when I came in the house late on Wednesday night, and barely acknowledged my existence -- or anyone else's -- on Thursday. He’s usually a little zenned out, but this wasn’t normal. So my mom and I brought him to the vet on Friday, and shortly after, dropped him at the hospital. He’d gotten into rat poisoning. He was bleeding. There were fluids in his lungs. 

This was unexpected, of course, but even more so, it deeply contrasted with my reason for returning to Fargo during this particular weekend: my best friend from high school was getting married. I had planned to spend most of the week with her and our other dear friend getting ready for the happiest day of her life thus far: errands and nails and the groom's dinner and picking up the dress and the day itself.

The three of us had deemed ourselves a trio of sisters a decade earlier, a la Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. We had created our own Sisterhood, but of the Traveling Purse, a canvas bag penned with our favorite quotes, the initials of boys we loved, and our own declaration to love each other, always. My weekend was supposed to be filled solely with this love, this sense of deep home and belonging and happiness that comes from being reunited with the ones who knew you when your hair was bleached blonde and you couldn’t stop taking Photobooth photos.

But then, on Saturday, thirty minutes before Em walked down the aisle, I got a call: Gunnar’s red blood cells had dropped, were dropping still. The plasma transfusion wasn’t working. The blood transfusion wasn’t taking either. They were trying one more time, one more test, but I should check in later to see how it was going. Maybe I could sneak out for 45 minutes after dinner to say goodbye to him? 

What do you do with that? Thirty minutes before one of the happiest moments of your life, receiving information that’s some of the saddest? How do we hold both in our hands, allowing them to take up the space in our hearts that those conflicting emotions deserve -- at the same time?

It would be nice if we could control these life circumstances. “Please, Gunnar, could you kindly wait a few more days before your health fails?” or “Hey, can we hold off on this whole ceremony until I know that my dog is going to make it?” Or maybe we’d just like to have control over our emotions about these circumstances that come hurtling toward us all at once: “I’m going to pretend this isn’t happening until the wedding dance is over at 12:01.” But -- surprise! -- we cannot. Our hearts will (usually) not let us. Life is bound to throw a number of competing scenarios, mixed emotions, and confusing circumstances at us -- in one big, messy, looks-like-it-was-wrapped-by-a-child package.

Because, as I am slowly learning, that is how life always comes at us -- all at once. We don’t get to choose or pause or compartmentalize, even though we try. The joy and the sorrow, the anger and the grace, the loneliness and the gratitude, all mixed together, calling us -- forcing us -- to pay equal attention to both. To all of it. So you sit through the ceremony and tear up over the vows, and maybe one of those tears is for your sick pup who might not make it. You sit and stare like the real-life version of the heart-eye emoji at the bride and groom and are so truly, unbelievably happy, and your internal self is more like the crying kitty emoji as you think about your dog. We are not either/or humans. We live deeply and fully in the both/and. We have no choice. And thank goodness for that.

Later that night, I got a text: Gunnar’s blood cells jumped to 19. It wasn’t great at all, but it was something. It was hope. I read this just as the DJ started playing -- I kid you not -- Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” If that’s not confirmation that Whitney and that song are magical, at least to me, I’m not sure what is.

Class Letter

May 2013

What's new? Tell us.

This was the first line of an email I received from my college last week. I'm a proud alum: I subscribe to (and actually read) the emails that share fundraising goals and construction updates and student stories. I keep up with (and truly care about) what's happening on campus, even though all the current students I knew have already graduated. I keep in touch with professors (more than I can count on one hand), grabbing coffee when I'm back in town or sending e-updates back and forth. So an invitation to contribute to a class letter didn't make me think twice.

We want to hear what's happened in your life this past year. Family changes? New job? Travel opportunities? Hobbies? Send your class agent some news to share with your class.

I certainly had things to share about this last year -- things that I'd feel reasonably comfortable sharing with my graduating class of 700ish people. The standard class letter topics that, from the outside, define my day-to-day life and Instagram and résumé. I work as a Residence Director at a diverse university. I had the opportunity to travel to Minneapolis and Chicago and Denver and Milwaukee and Atlanta. I started graduate school. I live in Portland and get to go on frequent hikes and visit the coast and live in a progressive and socially-conscious and active place, all while spending time with a great community of humans. Sounds awesome, yeah?

And I also had things to share about this year that wouldn't necessarily make it into my school's publication, but still feel like defining victories. They're the small victories, as Anne Lamott calls them. The things that I don't typically name when acquaintances ask, "What's new?" but are usually on my mind more than what I actually say in response to that question. Like the fact that I finally got my Oregon driver's license last winter. And that I had jury duty for the first time! I started drinking coffee and quickly moved to drinking it black. I decided to wait to go to seminary. I started a job that has me interacting with 18-year-olds every day. I moved. I voted for a woman.

I found this request for submissions again last night in my Gmail inbox, after sorting through the bill reminders and LinkedIn notifications. And as I was reading, I didn't think about those big and small victories. I thought about all of the things -- in my own life and in others' -- that wouldn't be shared in this class letter. The things that we intentionally don't say when people ask, "What's up?"

I read the questions again. Family changes? New job? Travel opportunities? Hobbies?

What are the answers that we wouldn't dream of submitting for our class letters?

I thought about people from my college who have gone through a major breakup this year. Or had a death in their family. Or a miscarriage. I thought about the people who have lost their jobs, or who feel like they'll never be able to get their dream job, or feel stuck in jobs that drain their time or energy or souls. I thought about my classmates who travel all the time for work, but hate being away from loved ones, or not feeling grounded in a community, or hate that they're hurting the environment a little more every time they have to board an airplane for that meeting. I thought about my classmates whose lives or budgets or realities don't allow them to go very far from home, who are frustrated with the repetition of their day-to-day lives. I thought about my classmates whose hobbies include Netflix bingeing and social media scrolling and a lot of time spent sitting alone in their expensive apartments, wondering what the hell their twenties are supposed to be about -- because it certainly doesn't feel like it should be this.

My class letter, if I was being honest about this past year, would include some of those things. A breakup that gutted me. A lot of Gilmore Girls in my apartment. A lot of late nights and Saturdays and middle-of-the-nights spent working. It included appointments with a counselor. It included a lot of questions around vocation, worth, relationships, finances, and location. A lot of unpublished writing drafts for this blog.

I've been seeing things like this -- publicly calling out those things that we feel ashamed of -- circulate on my Instagram and Facebook feeds before. Some call them honest résumés, some call them real résumés, some call them failure résumés. They list the musicals that she auditioned for, but never got called back. They list the fellowships that he applied to, but never got an interview for. They list the jobs or internships, the research opportunities or awards, the thing I worked really hard toward or the thing I really wanted that I never got. Basically, they list the things that we wouldn't dream of putting on our résumé.

But by putting in public these things that so often shame us, that make us feel like we don't have our lives together, maybe it allows us to take back these failures or disappointments or heartbreaks and remind ourselves that they're just a part of life. All of the things that we wouldn't dream of putting in a class letter? Every alum from my college (and every human in the world) has a few pages' worth of those, too. We’re not the only ones.

A public letter sent to our entire graduating class of over 700 humans maybe isn't the best place for us to lay out the innermost pages of our souls. But as we submit these life updates, maybe we can still find a way to check in about all those things we won't share there. Maybe the next time a friend or parent or partner asks us, “What’s new?” our answers can be a little more real. They can have a little more truth. They can include a little more of the “here’s what’s hard” and “here’s where I’m hurting.” It takes a lot of effort and bravery to ask that question and want to listen to the honest answer. And it takes a lot of effort and bravery to respond to that question when that answer doesn’t feel picture perfect. It requires us to show up, to ourselves and to each other, as whole people.

So, what's new?