Two Steps Forward, One Look Back.

"Son of a biscuit eater!!!" I yelled as a trash can full of my belongings fell out of the open car door and onto my bare foot. As my curling iron rolled to an unreachable place under the back tire of my tiny Jetta, my tears began to fall softly, slow at first and then in a flood-like fashion. Sitting on the floor of our parking garage I put my head to my knees and wondered whether the tears were a result of the fact that I absolutely hate moving (yet somehow find myself doing it at least twice a year) or whether they were coming from a deeper, realer place.

Two hours later I was ready to get on the road. "How are you feeling about everything?" my mother's voice boomed into my ear. "You don't have to yell, you're on speaker phone" I replied. "But I'm feeling good and I really think I made the right decision. So I guess there's no looking back now." Five minutes and a little white lie about having the pressure in my tires checked before the drive later, I hung up with my mother and was left alone with my thoughts and a car packed full of my life.

As I pulled out of the garage and into the neighborhood of Seattle that I had grown to both love and hate for it's noisy streets and extremely eclectic people, I couldn't help but look back. I found myself constantly checking my rearview mirror for a final glimpse at my life over the past six months. As I turned down the familiar streets in our neighborhood, I saw all the regulars that we had come to know and love. The family of four that were permanently drunk, asking for money, and always lurking in the alley behind our apartment, the he/she that sold Real Change newspapers and commented on me and Darcy's outfits every time we passed his/her street corner, the crazy haired second hand book store owner that I once shared an unexpected conversation and a few tissues with. In my rearview mirror I saw the burger joint that we frequented on the late night far too often, and memories of three of us singing our order into the microphone behind the counter one night came flooding back to me. I saw the art store that we spent hours in, picking out materials for craft nights and I saw Linda's, our favorite outdoor patio bar with the best mac and cheese Seattle has to offer.

As I merged onto the freeway I checked my rearview mirror again and saw Qwest and Safeco Field where nights in the beer gardens spent prowling on guys rather than cheering on our home team came rushing back to me. I thought of the hot dog stand owner that I willing gave my phone number to after a late night game, one too many eight dollar beers, and five minutes of convincing the girls that because of me, we would get a lifetime supply of free hot dogs. I remembered dancing to the beat of an aspiring drummer in the streets outside the stadium with Taylor not caring who was watching or how much time passed. And I laughed out loud thinking of Madison in the beer garden making eyes at one of the pitchers in the bullpen, stating that if he could, he would ask for her number.

In the far distance behind me I could see Queen Anne hill and my thoughts drifted to the night before and the cause for my current headache and fatigue. A going away party of the best kind. A great dinner with amazing friends followed by a Thursday night never to forget, or remember for that matter. I couldn't help but smile when thinking about how we took over the back bar of Pesos, drinking, dancing and being too obnoxious for our own good. Then I cringed as I recalled how we moved the party to the next bar over and found ourselves totally caught up in the moment and the underground karaoke scene that is clearly much bigger than we ever knew. Why I chose to sing "Say a Little Prayer For You" techno version I will never know, and I actually still do feel bad about blatantly boo-ing the girls that sang before us, belting out "My Humps" with choreographed dance moves to match. However, I really can't help but think that I could not have left Seattle in a better fashion. Surrounded by those that I love the most in the city, terrorizing souls, and of course making one last run to our favorite burger joint.

I merged again onto yet another freeway, the one that would take me all the way East. As I got further and further from the city and the place that six months prior I was convinced would be my home for an extended period of time, I found myself looking in my rearview mirror once again. There I saw the space needle perfectly placed in all it's glory, reminding me what an amazing city Seattle is, how much I had grown to love the people and the vibe, but also at the same time, taunting me to stay. "You have not seen the last of me Seattle" I found myself saying out loud as a smile covered my face and the needle faded from my view.

As the mountains engulfed my Jetta and Seattle became a piece of my past, I realized that the rearview mirror is there for a reason. It is there to remind you of the things behind you, the things that you pass on the way to where you're going. Just as in driving, in life it is important to look behind you every once in a while to see where you have come from, how far you've gone and how fast you are going. And after I strained to get one final glimpse of the city, I looked forward. I looked forward through the big window in front of me. I looked forward to my future, to a new city, a new adventure, a new chapter of my life. And I realized that though it is important to look back every once in a while, looking forward is what betters us, it is what makes us grow, and it is what shapes our lives.

Pieces of Me

Tonight while packing up the room that I have lived in for the past six months here in the city, I found myself getting quite nostalgic while sifting through old birthday cards and stacks of random pictures that date back to high school and a fashion sense that I really would like to forget I ever had. Though I have simplified things since I graduated from college, as moving to Europe really only permits you to shove your entire life into two suitcases and a carry-on, tonight I somehow found myself surrounded by piles of junk. And by piles of junk, I mean piles of my life.

Somehow though, instead of being angry at how much stuff I have acquired in the short time that I've been in Seattle or instead of condemning myself for becoming more and more like my pack-rat mother every day, I started looking for things. I began to look for little things, a specific piece of jewelry that went missing and a book that I swore I got back from a friend who recently borrowed it. Then I began thinking about all the things in my life, little and big, that have somehow become lost along the way over the years and many moves.

I thought about my favorite pair of rainbow sandals that were left somewhere on the beach after a night spent running around the sand in front of lifeguard tower ten. I thought of the hand-me-down twin bed passed down from my cousin, which I immediately re-gifted to a lucky passer-by who found it mid-alley way, on account of the fact that finding a legitimate home for a bed really seemed like too much to handle on the first night in my already fully furnished house on the ocean. I thought about the freaky deaky optical light pumpkin decoration my mom sent me for Halloween during freshman year of college which was somehow "misplaced" during the midst of a deep cleaning session before our graduation party senior year. I thought of my favorite scarf from India that was left while making a quick escape from a busy bus in Egypt, the next country we visited while studying abroad on Semester at Sea. I thought of a swimsuit cover up that was lost just this past weekend during the madness of a long and extremely wild day on the lake.

And as I started thinking of all the material items that I have somehow misplaced, thrown away, or just plain forgotten in places across the globe, I began to think about more important things that I have left behind along the way. Things that make me who I am, things that were left behind on purpose, yet sometimes unknowingly.

As I closed my eyes and laid down on my bed I began to realize how much of myself I have actually given to a place, a person, a moment in time. Whether it is a part of myself lost in a past relationship, my dignity lost somewhere at a bar in Fremont, or my youth that was lost the day I drove away from San Diego and the four years of irresponsibility on the beach, much of me has been left behind.

Opening my eyes, I focused on a picture on my dresser which boasts four colorful boats on the most incredibly green water I have seen. Instantly I was taken back to the beaches of Thailand and the night while studying abroad that changed everything for me. Looking back now, I realize that the next day leaving Koh Samet, I left a piece of myself on the beach. Whether my tears are still in the sand or my laughter somewhere in the warm air, I was broken that night, comforted by best friends, and emerged as a new and changed person. Again, I scanned across my half-packed room only to land on a photo of my house family in Germany and a wave of sadness overcame me as I realized how much I miss that little guest house, how deeply I loved our house father Simon, and what a large part of my heart is left back in the tiny town of Illesheim.

Finally my eyes moved once again to a picture of the four of us. The girls and I on our rooftop deck overlooking one of the best views in the entire city. Memories of the past six months running through the streets of Seattle at night and exploring new, cute cafes by day flooded my mind. I thought of what we have accomplished in the time we've been here together. I thought about the conversations had on the red couch, some painfully serious, some wildly inappropriate.

And while I wondered for a few minutes what material item I will be most likely to forget, to lose or leave behind at the apartment in a couple days, I realized that the most important thing I can leave behind is a piece of myself. As of today, I have one week to sift through the piles of junk that have become my life. One week to check and double check every nook and cranny for lost belongings. And one final week to let a part of me go, to leave a piece of me behind.