One thing I love about Facebook, (and there are many things I do not love about it) is the memory notifications I get in the mornings. Sitting with coffee on my couch, cool light slipping in between the blinds, my son snuggling up under my blanket rather than getting his own, I will often use that lazy time to check those reminders.
Today, I have memories from Brooklyn, Texas and, from last year, the day our boxes arrived to fill our new apartment in LA. Scrolling through them, I remembered each very different stage, and for the first time ever, there was no melancholy, no sting of loss or missed opportunity, no feelings of sadness or anger.
In July, it will be seven years since my family moved to Brooklyn. My son was about to turn two. A cherub child with wide, sparkling blue eyes and white-blond hair, learning words and still using a pacifier to cope with the world around him. My husband would take the subway to work in an open-concept office, in an old warehouse building, between the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges. I would use my son’s nap time to write my first novel, learning by doing, and doing doing doing again. We would all go through high-pressure change in the two years living in that city. We would all leave the city feeling a little bit lost.
In March, it will be five years since my family moved back to Texas. My son would soon turn four. A tiny superhero who had left cars and trains and his pacifier behind for super villains and dance fighting and playing pretend. My husband would work in an office, tucked in a corner of our wood-shaded home. I would write my second novel perched above the trees, and it would be better because practice makes imperfect things a little less shabby. We would all go through slow, sometimes painful transformations in the four years living in that house on the hill surrounded by trees. We would all leave the forest feeling a little bit braver.
Two days ago, was the one year anniversary of my family moving to Los Angeles. My son will soon turn nine. A sweet-natured but sharp-tongued gamer with a massive playlist and a lot of big, weird, and wild dreams of his own. My husband works at a desk he built with is father, in a sunny corner of our living room, and at night, on the weekends, he writes a screenplay with me on the couch. I revised my third novel, rewrote a screenplay and began another two, write a book with my friend, and all the unfinished stories inside of me, on the page, in drawers and notebooks and my imagination are bursting to be told imperfectly, perfectly because they are mine. I do not know what we will be when we leave here, or if we will ever leave, because none of that is a memory, it’s a story we’re all still writing.
I am not always good at feeling settled with myself. My choices. My own character arc. I get restless and flustered, my confidence wobbles and becomes false, my faith that I can achieve my goal (or that I should actually ever achieve it) falters. But isn’t that just part of it? Isn’t every moment of failure the beginning of something new?