Narratives Actualized: Change Your Setting, Change Your Life
By Melissa Lion
I wanted to live in Portland. I’d visited Portland for the first time seven years prior for the wedding of my husband’s best friend. We landed, drove our rental car to the hotel by the airport, slept, then went to Powell’s bookstore.
I’d spent the previous 10 years in San Francisco, and I was back in San Diego, my hometown, to start my new life with my new husband, my new career as a novelist. But still, I was back in San Diego. My migration had always been north, but I wound up south and there was something just not quite right.
We walked into Powell’s and I stood in the fiction section and felt pure, white-hot hope.
We drove to the coast for the wedding. I wore a dress and nice shoes. Everyone else wore Tevas and it seemed no one at that wedding had seen the business end of a razor. The desserts were so pretty and so chocolate-looking. I bit into one and nearly wiped my tongue on a napkin. It was my first vegan experience.
The groom tapped a keg of home-brewed Barleywine. I drank my glass and my husband’s and went to the groom, begging for more. There was no more left. It was the single greatest glass of any liquid I’d ever consumed.
We left Portland and I knew I needed to move there. I talked with my husband about it. He was a surfer, from a tropical island. He said he’d never move to Portland.
We divorced a year later.
I moved back to San Francisco, had a baby. Published a couple of books. Taught school.
I had two friends.
We moved to Malibu to be closer to family. South, again, rather than north.
I was content in my relationship. Not thrilled. Not burning in love. I was fine. I got a few more friends in Malibu.
We lived in a trailer, on four acres in the middle of an orchard. I remember saying, “the constant sunshine is depressing me.”
It was a fine life. Everything was fine. I taught writing classes. I sold books. I had three friends. I had an adequate relationship. But I felt drawn north. Portland was calling.
I decided that I would figure out a way to move there. By hook or by crook. Within six months I’d bought a house and moved my family to Portland.
I’ve lived here for two years now. It’s been a rough two years. My ex-partner moved out. I get no child support. My career is mystery, though it’s becoming clearer daily. I have more friends than I can count. I’m in a relationship with a man who has redefined love for me. I produce events that make hundreds of people happy. I’ve lost all the weight I gained from my pregnancy four years ago. And did I mention my friends? What about my relationship? How about the fact that I spend my days surrounded by people I love.
It’s fall and the leaves are changing. I still can’t believe those colors occur in nature. I’m knitting and keeping warm.
And I miss California. I miss baking in the sunshine. I miss driving my car fast.
But what I don’t miss is the restlessness. I don’t miss always turning north. I revel in the comfort of putting down roots. Daily, I feel that same white-hot hope I first felt in Powell’s bookstore.
I still, however, wipe my tongue on a napkin at the thought of vegan dessert.
