the contrast is something great, I think.

I have my polka dotted suitcase with the lime green wheels all ready to go.

And by ready to go, I mean not at all packed, but at least somewhere in my room. Clearly.

Because, see, I am flying. Again. Out to California, this time. And it sure is something to compare this trip to the one I took last November, which is the last time I flew out there to be with Latshaw-WEST.

I remember staying up all night because my flight was super early and who am I kidding? I wasn’t sleeping much then, anyway. I remember talking to my pop while driving to the airport; he was marveling at how cerebral and calm and collected I was being about the state of my life. I don’t know why it was that way. I never really knew how I was going to feel–whether I was going to need to slink away to some private corner and sob or rather just be able to talk about the state of my marriage like it was nothing more than a math problem that I needed to solve. I suppose a psychologist would say something about grief coming in waves and how the psyche has a way of protecting itself by ebbing and flowing the thoughts and feelings that come with trauma.

Actually, I remember the first time I really, tangibly felt an ebb. I think it must have been February and I was looking at art with a friend, asking him which of the subjects of the artists he’d like to hang out with or something very important like that. We were laughing because I think one of the choices was a squirrel in high heels and I couldn’t believe that he was even deliberating; like, hello. The choice is obvious when there are squirrels strutting around in heels. And in the midst of laughing and goofing off, I suddenly remembered. Everything. But that wasn’t the weird part. I had been remembering and carrying all of that around with me for a while now–thinking about that again was like stopping to take notice every time I exhaled.

But the fact that I had forgotten at all was what made me stop.

And feel some semblance of hope that things were on their way, at least, to what can only be called Better. And I was desperate for Better. I had been living off terrible for some time and had started to feel it in the way that my spirit was stretching thin. Or something.

But back to flying to California the last time. I remember feeling so utterly alone. And not just because I was actually flying by myself. I had done that a million times at least, what was different this time was the feeling of being bereft. And I remember wondering if people who inadvertently touched my life that day–whether in security or on the plane in the seat next to me, even–I wondered if they could see the sadness in my eyes.

I remember grabbing my suitcases from baggage claim and being frustrated at living out of suitcases still. It was November, after all. I was supposed to be home. With a man who loved me. My things were supposed to be unpacked, at least. But, no.

I remember fighting back the tears as Jase drove up to get me. I was there on the curb, stupid, typical suitcases all around me and my little guitar strapped to my back. My brother and I hugged and gosh, it was good to be with family. We talked of normal things and that was good, too, as I tried to forget about my new normal.

I remember talking to one of Jason’s very good friends and he was asking me if I missed being on tour. And suddenly I had to make up an answer because I realized that I hadn’t thought about tour at all. That world ceased to exist for me the moment I came home and gave all my energy over to the act of remaining alive.

And the crazy thing about that time while I was with them was that, though it was incredibly painful still, it was also beautiful. Which says something about life. I think the two are not mutually exclusive. I think we do ourselves a disservice when we try to always flee the pain, because in a way that is hard to describe, being there in such tumult and brokenness produced something that can only be described as precious. It came out in the songs and the words and the pictures that we made. Even the jokes and the laughter we shared were not necessarily incongruent with the pain.

But all this to say that I am so grateful to be going back to California, but this time without feeling totally bereft. That time had to happen, and honestly, I wouldn’t even trade it at this point. I think, anyway. But this time–the one where my heart doesn’t feel like it might just stop beating, it hurts so much–has to happen too.

And I am grateful for the contrast.