You Can't Fit a Life in a Car

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There comes a point in adulthood when you realize your entire existence no longer fits in the backseat of a Chevy Impala.

Neither does it require six semi-trucks and a convoy worthy of a military exercise. (*side eye to you know who, I see you over there.....)

Somewhere between those two extremes lives an ordinary life.

Mine.

As I prepare to leave Washington, people keep asking me the same questions.

"Can't you just mail your books?" "Ship your clothes"

"Why don't you just donate everything and start over?"

NO.

Then it's....

"How much can your car hold?"

The answer is... enough for the people I love.

The Rogue will carry me, Dakota, my special co pilot who will remain anonymous until we return to Arkansas, two cats, (until we hit KC then it will be 4) our luggage, medications, important documents, and enough snacks to survive an interstate invasion of gas station food.

The rest?

That's what moving containers were invented for.

I'm not hauling antique china passed down through six generations. I don't own a grandfather clock that survived the Civil War. I don't have boxes of childhood memories or family heirlooms carefully wrapped in yellowing newspaper.

Life had other plans.

Bad decisions in my younger years, two marriages that didn't survive, countless moves, cancer, career changes... life has a funny way of editing your possessions without asking your permission.

The oldest thing I still own is a simple bowl and dish a kind woman bought for me at Uwajimaya back in 1993.

That's it.

Thirty-three years.

One bowl.

One dish.

And somehow, they've outlived marriages, apartments, jobs, and nearly every other possession I've ever owned.

The rest of my belongings are wonderfully... ordinary.

Books.

Rubber stamps.

My altar.

Kitchen gadgets I actually use.

A printer.

A couple of bookcases.

The things that make a house feel like mine.

Not because they're expensive.

Because they're useful.

There's something strangely liberating about that realization.

People often ask if I'll miss Seattle.

The answer is complicated.

I'll miss the mountains.

I'll miss watching orcas.

I'll miss the coffee.

I'll miss the shaved ice at the Farmstand on Saturdays after going to Snow Goose with Kota. 

I'll miss the smell after it rains.

But I won't miss trying to convince people that friendship is worth scheduling three weeks in advance.

There's a term for it: the Seattle Freeze.

I didn't believe it at first.

Surely people were exaggerating.

Then Dakota and I did everything you're supposed to do.

We joined clubs.

We attended events.

We went to meetups.

We volunteered.

We showed up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

We met lots of nice people.

Friendly people.

Interesting people.

People who smiled, chatted for an hour, and then disappeared into the mist like socially awkward woodland spirits.

Acquaintances?

Plenty.

Friends?

Not one. Not one person I could call after the wreck and ask, "Can you come drive us home?" or "Can you drive me to a doctor's appointment?"

I don't think anyone was trying to be rude.

Seattle has a culture of independence that some people absolutely love.

It just wasn't our culture.

I genuinely believe geography mattered more than we realized.

Had we lived farther south—Federal Way, Redondo, somewhere that made spontaneous coffee dates less like planning an expedition to Antarctica—I think our experience would have been different.

Instead, we were always driving.

An hour here.

Forty-five minutes there.

Traffic that could turn a dinner invitation into a three-hour commitment.

Relationships need proximity.

Friendships are built on "Want to grab coffee?"

Not "Let's compare calendars for next month."

When every social interaction requires crossing multiple cities, taking 2 or 3 $30 ferries, eventually people stop asking.

So do you.

I'm leaving Washington with fewer possessions than most people expect from a fifty-four-year-old.

I'm okay with that.

Because what I'm taking matters.

The books I'll read again.

The stamps that became an unexpected little business.

The altar that's witnessed my prayers, celebrations, and tears.

Two cats who have absolutely no idea they're about to embark on an eight-state road trip.

The people I love.

Everything else?

It's just stuff.

A home isn't measured in cubic feet.

It's measured by who is waiting for you when you unlock the door.

And thankfully...

They all fit in the Rogue.

Even if the rest of my life needs its own moving container.

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