All you weary need rest.
I didn’t have a singular “a ha!” moment before deciding to pack it up and hit the road. It was an accumulation of many things falling apart while unsuspecting doors were pried open.
My roommate moved home and I didn’t have a care in the world to search for another. My freelance work allows for travel, flexibility, and general nomadic tendencies. Austin gets richer and whiter, with the same ugly rearing head of gentrification that cities across the nation, including Austin, have seen for generations. I have no desire to participate in the displacement of people of color and other marginalized folk for the sake of cupcake shops and yoga studios. My social circle crumbled as I sobered up and turned my attention toward myself.
Though it didn’t happen in one memorable, lasting, straight out of an autobiography inevitably turned indie-softspot movie starring Reese Witherspoon or Julia Roberts moment, it is as if I looked up and thought, “What the hell am I still doing in Austin?”
So, I’m leaving. I don’t have a definitive plan. I have dreams of wide landscapes, small towns, open windows, identifying trees and plants and herbs and flowers, collecting sand in my shoes, releasing the death grip on my makeup bag, coffee shop strangers turned friends, and meeting all the doggies.
I’m fortunate enough to be in a position where I can decide to leave. Just like that. After selling most of my belongings, I’m storing the rest with family across Texas, relying on my freelance gigs to pay the bills, and hoping my amazing family doesn’t pull the rug from underneath me after I burn too much sage or drink all the coffee…
I’m one of those weirdos who’s always enjoyed moving. I’m sentimental by nature and a pack rat by fault, so those moments of dusting off nostalgia and boxing up literal and figurative scrapbooks are as much of a therapeutic and emotional process as they are logistical and necessary. Packing is not so much of a burden for me as it is a pastime. I am my mother’s daughter.
But this move’s different. As I gracefully, thoughtfully pack away Nana’s jewelry dishes, Dada’s school books, Grandmommie’s ceramic birds, Mimi’s silver, I don’t have any idea when they’ll be unboxed again. There’s no destination - no imaginings of filled shelves in a new home. No nooks to stuff to the brim with my favorite odds and ends. This is new. This is uncharted emotional territory.
I’m dangling in between independence and isolation. Some days I wake up feeling brave and impenetrable. Others, I’m a weepy, desperate, lonely mess. What if I can’t make it by myself? What if it turns out I’m not actually escaping from Texas, and am, instead, running from the things I can’t face about myself? What if this dream falls apart and I’m left explaining why I’m back home so soon and what’s next for the always moving, always scheming, always leaving me?
These boxes are sealed with tape and tears because it pains me to stomach all of the things, people, memories I’m leaving here, and I can’t quite make out if the future will be worth it. In this moment, I am weary.
But even through my weariness, I'm planning! One of my creative goals over the next year, while on the road, is to write write write wriiiiiiiiiiiite, right? And I'll do so here. I'm not one of those "10 ways to avoid a quarter life crisis and keep your skin looking 17" kind of writers, so what you read now is likely what you'll get...
This unsorted, disorganized post is likely an accurate precursor to what the rest of this journey will bring. I know I don’t sound it right now, because I’m lost in a sea of giving away, packing up, and moving on, but I am endlessly excited for my days on the road, and I hope you'll join me by reading my words and staying in touch.
Until next.
Bethany Swoveland is a poet and digital artist in Texas. She’s available for freelance work and can be reached at bethanyswoveland@gmail.com. Sign up for Bethany’s monthly email newsletter here.