The Art of Leaving

Well the moving fairy has tapped her wand and granted me a few extra days to collect myself in Colorado before, what will surely be, a trying road trip to Texas. I have been unsuccessful in my quest to convince my mother that I will be perfectly safe driving alone... and when I say alone I really mean without the quirky woman who gave me life and is the only person on Earth who doesn't like music (no, really). Signe suggested books on tape, in particular Hank the Cowdog, which we listened to on a lengthy car ride to Keystone as kids. It's just nostalgic enough that I may avoid becoming homicidally irritated.

The past couple of weeks have been some of the most surreal, fantastic, and emotionally mixed in memory. I've felt incredibly sad, ridiculously excited, unpredictably apathetic, and very loved. I'm finding that leaving is much more difficult than I had anticipated a few months ago during the interview process. I finished out my final days of work with a "Stale Cake and Soda Party," a tribute to my lamination obsession, weeks of reminiscing past adventures, and a 64 year old homeless alcoholic in tears. "If you're really going to Waco, hell I'm gonna miss ya' kid."



Leaving is an art: defined not only by its subject but also by the style, medium, technique, and perspective of the artist. I'm making a conscious effort to adopt gratitude as my brush stroke, infuse my paints with optimism, and compose my canvas with reverence. I want to appreciate how lucky I am to have such wonderful, funny, and loving people in my life. I want to keep far, far from my mind the reality that many of my relationships with these people will likely change. But in the words of the Rolling Stones, "You can't always get what you waaaaaant."

You can, however, make a plan to get schnockered on Hungarian booze with your father (at his suggestion) to mark your departure.

You can dance to "Thriller" in Converse All Stars with your detox shoe twin.

You can descend Mount Sanitas while periodically asking your fellow sure-footed warrior, "Are you sure we're on the trail?"

You can dance at 1am to gothic folk revival music with your middle school locker partner and your high school art class comrade.

You can eat expired chocolates with your pinky in the air and the giggle of epicurean adventurers in your ear.

You can quote South Park with Fitzi-La and Jong E Nong.

You can drink monkey wine and eat salmon with your zombie-loving former co-worker and a friend who begins each phone message, "Laura, Laura Loo... where are you?" (adapted from Scooby Doo theme music)

You can talk about your move to Waco and their move to Taiwan in the same conversation.

And you can throw a small, plastic bus down the stairs to the shrieks of a 17-month old who's parents call you "Crazy Aunt" and were in Mrs. McMillan's 4th grade class with you.

Turns out I can live my random life and enjoy the strange and wonderful moments that seem to punctuate it. This painting, though crafted on a canvas of uncertainty, is alive with brilliant colors and a heart full of love. My paint can spilleth over.