Peeling away

A little story about leaving

I’ve been writing a newsletter (almost) every week for the last 3ish years, and more inconsistently for 8 years before that. Every time I send one, my brother responds saying, “I wish this was in Substack so I could comment.” Or “Substack, Jo. You gotta start a Substack.”

I wasn’t quite ready for the commitment. I wasn’t sure what my Substack “voice” would be. I kept saying, “Yeah yeah one day.”

Since I am always prodding my students to GO BEFORE THEY’RE READY, I’m going before I’m ready and publishing this here on Substack. Not exactly sure what direction I’ll go with this, so I’ll see what emerges as I go.

For now, I’m sharing the newsletter I sent out to my list today about the BIG MOVE on the horizon. 🤯

~~~~~~~

In 2004, I bought half a house with my best friend in Western Massachusetts.

We were two single females, both low-income artists, and we pooled our resources to make the house purchase possible. My parents contributed the down payment. She was able to secure private funding for a mortgage.

We felt invincible. Take that sexism! Take that capitalism!

It was a two family house, so we each had a separate unit. Me upstairs, her downstairs. We shared the yard and the roof, had a view of Mount Tom, and settled in to make home.

I stripped layers of wood paneling and old wallpaper off the walls, hung wall board and plastered the walls myself. Rented a sander and re-finished the hardwood floors. Insulated the attic — framed out some walls and wired it to become a magical, secret art studio perched at the top of my little house.

A year later I learned about the MFA Theater/Contemporary Performance program at Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado.

I was an independent theater maker and the program looked like my dream program, and even though I had just bought a house, I felt like I couldn’t NOT do it.

I found a renter for my house, moved my stuff into the attic, packed up my car, and drove across the country to follow my bliss, trusting that doors would open where I didn't know there would be doors. (nod to Joseph Campbell) I planted perennials and promised I would be back two years later when I finished the program.

But some combination of Niwot's curse, the glorious sunshine, out-of-sight-out-of-mind, and slowly slowly finding new beloveds and building new community in a new place took hold. Toss in a little bit of a-body-in-motion-stays-in-motion and nearly 20 years later, I'm still here.

A couple of years ago, the winds started to change. I took steps to sell my half of my house to my co-owner, and it started to look like moving back to actually live in the house — and in Western Mass — made some good sense. I daresay I felt a call to return. Recently my tenant gave notice that she was leaving at the same time that I learned my lease wouldn’t renew in Colorado. So it felt like a little nudge from the universe to make the move.

It's not quite as simple as "I'm going back to Massachusetts to live happily ever after in the lovely house I own." Turns out co-owning a house with a best friend is a pretty complex undertaking. And the cold, wet, gray New England winters are nothing to sneeze at. So it could be I'm going back to close up the house, sell it, and come back to Colorado. It also could be the soft fertile New England soil and the abundance of water keep me settled there for a good long time.

Either way, I'm leaving Colorado in early February.

It’s still kinda hard to grock. Leaving a place you've lived for 20 years is a lot easier said than done. All the deep roots you've laid and communities you've nurtured and people you've loved and beauty you've perhaps taken for granted rise up and come into crystal clear view.

Pulling up those roots feels a bit like removing body parts.

When I was 9, my family moved from Chicago to Ohio. I remember the day of our move, sitting on the stoops with my sister and our (shared) best friend, Ginny B. We clutched her so tightly and refused to let go. My dad had to peel us off of her to put us in the car.

It feels a bit like that. Like I said, removing body parts, because Ginny B was an extension of my body, as are the places and people I’ve loved here.

To be clear, there’s *excitement* too, but the grief of leaving is what’s in front right now.

And showing up for all of it is what my work is all about — with heart and breath and body and spirit. So that’s what I’m doing, despite the discomfort. I’m doing my best to show up for all of it.

I've been saying, "I'll believe it's actually happening when I get in the car and drive away."

Which means (I confess) there is the sliver of possibility you'll hear from me in a month saying, "Yep. Changed my mind." (I always felt like the Billy Joel song, "And she never gives out and she never gives in... she just changes her mind" was written about me.)

But it's kinda lookin like it's actually gonna happen.

Yeah howdy.

I've got a couple offerings cooking IN PERSON in January. This and this. I'll still be all yours if you want online support, and I’ll be back for visits for sure, but this is your last chance to join me IN PERSON for the foreseeable future!

Stay tuned.

In the meantime, sending lots of love and gratitude
Johanna

^^^where I’m going…