Feast

      The first time I decided to uproot my life entirely came after a lazy morning laying in bed and watching reruns of How I Met Your Mother. I had recently moved to Portland right after college, because of a boy, and I had settled in nicely. I had an apartment, a job, and this boy and I were on the verge of cohabiting. I’d found a level of comfort that sometimes feels impossible in a new place, and I was enjoying the type of Saturday morning you can only truly enjoy pre-children. As I lazily snuggled under the covers, an episode came on and I drifted off as Lily frantically planned her upcoming wedding to Marshall, her partner of nine years. I opened my eyes about ten minutes later, and Lily was pacing in a public restroom, lamenting about all the dreams she sacrificed because of her relationship. I didn’t fall back asleep after that. Instead, I sunk under the covers as a heaviness materialized, a heaviness that lingered long after the show ended.
     For days, I reflected on the plans I had made for myself that seemed to have dissipated and now weren’t even in my periphery. I’d never intended to have a boyfriend at this point in my life. I wanted to graduate unattached and untethered so I could “find myself” while backpacking in South America or moonlighting in European cafes while writing my novel. I cringe as I write this, but at the time, it felt like the life experience I needed before becoming an adult and contributing to my 401K. I hadn’t anticipated meeting someone I cared about and immediately becoming so comfortable.
     After that Saturday morning, I waited for those thoughts to blow over, but they remained entrenched in my mind. I tried to rationalize and justify my new life choices, but the only message that kept repeating in my head was my own voice whispering, You gave up what you wanted for a guy. I felt so cliché and anti-feminist. At the time, I felt I had something to prove to myself and if I didn’t do it right then, I worried I’d never do it at all. So I moved to China. I found a teaching job at a university, lived with a Belarusian chain-smoker who was always insisting I try the cabbage soup diet, and spent a year in absolute unfamiliarity.
     Living in a quaint city of only ten million, I had to learn quickly how to navigate the language and public transit and to ignore what I saw the chef doing outside the restaurant just minutes before he made dinner. I spent a year drinking tea and too much whiskey and washing my dishes while showering (multitasking!). By American standards, the pay was minimal, but it was plenty enough to live comfortably and spend my holidays traveling around Asia. It was exactly what I’d hoped for and needed, and I felt alive. I loved the people and the challenge and the culture shock. My lungs and my liver both took a hit that year, but it was a small sacrifice to add life experience to my personal resume. I came back to the States after that year feeling energized, enlightened, and smug in a way that only early twenty-somethings can be after spending time abroad.
     A break from my routine and a whole other continent under my travel belt scratched the itch that had been building for some time. And when I came back, that boy I left behind was still there, and we grew up and found an apartment together. And then we found grown up jobs, and along came a baby, and a wedding, and another baby. Our reality morphed into mortgage payments, diaper rashes, and date nights discussing infant milestones and laundry duty. Life settled into a new level of comfort, albeit one with less sleep and more handling of other people’s feces. Most days were filled with lesson plans, grading papers, pre-school pick ups, endless games of hide and seek, and counting down until bedtime to seek a few needed moments of solitude.
     And then in April of this year, my grandfather died. He was 91 years old, ready to go join my grandmother, and as he puts it, had lived “one hell of a life.” The end of a life well lived doesn’t usually constitute a tragedy, but he and I had recently become close. He reached out a year and a half ago with an e-mail that read:

Hey kid,

It’s the end of my third act and the curtain’s closing anytime now. I want us to talk more. I’m not talking in generalities, I’m talking about you and me. What do ya say?

-Big G

     After having only talked with my grandpa on holidays and the biannual visit, I was surprised, but not unpleasantly. We began e-mailing back and forth regularly, and soon he confided that he wanted me to know his stories because he trusted me to tell his legacy through his obituary. On the night he died, I sifted through all our old e-mails and cried as I read through his escapades, his advice, and his one-liners. And then I found an e-mail that had been buried months before that I had yet to open. I braced myself emotionally and then read a story about the time he and my grandmother backpacked from Yosemite to Lake Tahoe. That wasn’t unusual for them; they regularly embarked on adventures together. What spoke to me was the final line of the e-mail that said, Ya know kid, life’s a feast, and most of these poor bastards are starving. Don’t forget to dig in.
     As I read that last line, I crumpled and dissolved into heavy sobs. I cried for my grandpa and all the things I wish I could have asked him and all the stories I still had yet to hear. Then I cried for myself, because my life had felt like nothing close to a feast lately. Where was the girl who moved to the other side of the world? When was the last time I sat in the grass with my kids without worrying about the dishes in the sink? I had two healthy, strong-willed children and a partner I adored. We were so damn lucky, so why did I feel so exhausted and lifeless? My life seemed to circulate around to-do lists, domestic duties, and survival. I spent so much of my days counting down to bed time or praying for a vacation to give me back a lightness in my soul. I hadn’t been feasting at all. I had only been picking at the buffet and shoving it in my pockets for later when I got truly hungry.
     Later that night, armed with a strange mixture of grief and drive, I set about finding a way to both honor my grandfather and revitalize my life. I reread his stories and to see what I might replicate. I briefly considered hiking the trail from Yosemite to Tahoe, but then thought better as I realized I had no backpacking experience and it also sounded like a knock-off version of Wild. I thought about auditioning for a Shakespearean play to honor his love of all things theater. A quick internet search revealed that experience and talent are generally prerequisites. Grief leaves no room for rational thinking. I briefly contemplated a tattoo to commemorate his words of wisdom before I remembered he thought tattoos were only for sailors and whores. Nothing felt quite right.
     I then thought about my past desire to live abroad again, but this time with my whole family; this yearning had laid dormant for so long that I rarely bothered to acknowledge it. Feeling mildly hopeful, I looked up real estate and teaching positions in South America, and as my plan gained momentum, I researched family Spanish lessons and what it would take to put our house on the market. This is what we needed; this is how we would get our feast. I went to bed that night alternating between tears and triumph.
     I sprang downstairs the next morning, made my tea, and told my husband of my new plan to sell our house and relocate our family to Belize, or Ecuador, or Chile. He had, after all, been so supportive of my move to China. He looked up from his coffee, and knowing I was still shrouded in grief, said gently, “Doesn’t this seem a bit abrupt? If you want to live abroad, let’s talk about it and make plans, but does it have to be this second?”
     I stared at him and erupted in a fresh batch of tears. How could he not understand the urgency? Our lives had been coasting along in a haze of familiarity and routines, and the time to shake it up was NOW. I didn’t want to be 91 years old, reflecting on my life, and thinking to myself, Well, I never made it to South America, but at least my kids were on a structured nap schedule.
     We went back and forth like this for a while, while I still firmly insisted that moving thousands of miles away would be the panacea, until he said, “When did we become not enough for you?”
     “You are enough!” I protested wildly. “I just want us to really live and not let the monotony of daily lives starve us anymore!”
     “And the only way to do that is in Peru?”
     “No, that’s not the only way,” I sputtered. “But why wait?”
     “I’m not saying we can’t make a plan to give our family an amazing experience, but we also have a good thing going. What about making a conscious effort to be happier here and now?” I didn’t have a reply.
     For twelve years, this man has listened to every idea, every whim, every career change and plan I’ve created. He’s supported almost all of them, and has been a gentle voice of reason when my whims are nothing short of ludicrous. And he might have had a point. Bolting to China at twenty-four was doable, and a year of my life I’m forever grateful for, but now I have a family and responsibilities. I can’t load everyone on a plane at a moment’s notice because my life hasn’t had enough flavor lately.
      My grandpa may have hitchhiked across the country after the war and directed Shakespeare, but he also married the love of his life with whom he celebrated every anniversary with pizza and beer to remind them of their first year together. He also raised four children, which he claims was by far his greatest accomplishment. If I’m to truly take a page out of his book, a feast can be in the big, grand gestures, but it is equally found in the minutia sandwiched in between those grandiose moments. I’m thankful I read his message when I did; I had been drifting with my eyes closed for too long.
     I think we might head to South America in a few years; I want to learn another language, experience another culture firsthand, and do it alongside my loved ones. Until then, I’ve signed up for Spanish classes and we’ve mapped out new hiking trails we want to explore this summer. I’m trying to put down the kitchen sponge to go outside and watch my kids laugh as they learn how to throw a baseball. We could probably all use a little more feasting in our lives, whether that’s moving to Sri Lanka or sitting in the dirt just to look up at the sky. It might be a letter from a dead relative or a mediocre sitcom, but when the message comes, you listen. Go have your feast.