Several weeks ago I attended a gallery exhibition in Los Angeles. Among the abstract paintings, I made small talk with a friend of a friend of a friend when the conversation led, inevitably, to the topic of my imminent move. I explained to my newfound acquaintance that Connor and I would soon leave LA and drive three days across the country to return to my hometown of Pensacola, Florida, where we would create the next chapter of our lives. His face fell immediately. He drew back with a wince, as if I had shown him a shark bite, and involuntarily blurted at me a desperate cry for reason. “WHY?!”

 

His response was rather un-unique. Most Angelinos, it seems, can’t fathom how anyone could choose to make a home in a place so dark. So evil. So… conservative. I usually spared myself the burden of explanation, answering with a quick, “Well, my dad bought property for us to live in for cheap!” or “I’m not actually sure why! Maybe I’m crazy!!” My answer was almost always unsatisfying. Their eyes stared through me, blank and bewildered. Worried sick for my well being. Or perhaps more worried for theirs.

 

I usually found their judgment had little to do with Pensacola itself — most can’t even point it out on a map — but much more to do with their feelings about the South in general. Frankly, I understand the trepidation and don’t blame them for it. From our phone screens, the South is portrayed as an anarchic land of intolerant gun lovers. Hillbillies who care more about their own personal freedoms than the freedoms of others. (And ironically all in the name of Jesus Christ — a man who famously gave everything he had away.) But I know this trope to be more of a caricature. A stereotype. And I’ve never been one to find stereotypes interesting. They always leave out the good stuff, the nuance. A pulled pork sandwich, hold the meat.

 

Connor and I have been in Pensacola for a month now, and while I’m still adjusting to the book-curling humidity, I’ve been surprised to find a kind of magic here that I was never attuned to growing up. I see it in the tree branches outside my bedroom window. In my neighbor pushing his lawnmower. In the Blues Cafe down the street. I taste it in the tea pitchers and smell it in the thunderstorms. A rich history lives in this warm Southern air. It blows in the wind and carries with it a complex blend of joy, pain, division, togetherness, tragedy, triumph, resentment, and rejoice. There is something misunderstood about this place. A secret that lies beneath the surface. I’ve got a hunch that it lives only in the souls of the ones who call the South their home. Perhaps the force that called me back here is no different than the one that led me to leave in the first place. A desire to know myself more.

 

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A few things I’m thankful for:

- The opportunity to teach dance again :)

- Fresh basil in my kitchen

- Rocking chairs

 

 

Pop culture things I’m thinking about:

I’m like truly in awe at the fact that brat has gone all the way to the White House. Just goes to prove that art is more powerful than politics. Politics needs arts to survive.

 

 

A recent journal entry:

7.23.24

I would rather wholly do something that I don’t wholly want to do than half-ass anything at all

 

 

A random thought:

For a long time I’ve been asking for life to give me a season of less. I wanted less work. Less responsibility. Less to do. Ever since the move, however, I’ve entered a season of more. The demand of my day job still remains. But now I’ve got the demand of setting up a new home. Teaching multiple dance classes a week. Maintaining a larger network of family and friends. Even writing this newsletter.

 

I read this thing on Facebook the other day (I know... why the hell am I on Facebook?) that shared a story about Ernest Hemingway. I will probably butcher it now. Allegedly he lost a bunch of his writing right before he had to submit something big. With newly limited resources (short on time), he evolved. Developed a new writing styling that was more succinct, clear and to the point. It became the style he is known for today.

 

I asked for a season of less and got a season of more. But as a result I’ve had to practice letting my creativity flow out of me without overthinking. I’ve had to edit. To practice letting go of perfectionism. To prioritize things more intuitively. To trust myself, let my values and God lead the way, and find myself pleasantly surprised by the result.

 

It’s been rewarding. Helpful. But I think I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll take that season of less now, thank you!!

 

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Thanks for reading :) Talk again soon.