A Love Letter to Tucson

When I started this year I was looking for a challenge. I was going to live by JVC’s four values: simplicity, community, spirituality, and social justice. Rumor had it that a year of service was going to be earth shaking and I could not wait to begin.

I thought I was prepared too, thought I knew what my challenges would be. The stories men shared with me were going to break my heart. I planned on getting really involved in immigration issues; I thought I’d use my Spanish all the time. My community-mates and I would be instant friends and have tearful reflections on a weekly basis. I figured that community would have some hurdles, mostly with chores and budgeting…I guess I should have known better.

The year is now officially over and I’m currently on a train driving through Texas (did anyone else not fully comprehend just how damn large this state is?) on my way to St. Louis. My friend Meredith picked me up yesterday and we closed up my house…but the thing is, it’s not my house anymore and my bed is not my bed anymore. I don’t live in Tucson anymore and a new community is embarking on their year starting…Thursday. Sometimes I feel like if I just keep saying these facts that the reality of leaving will hit me.

It’s not working though.

The only reality I’m aware of right now is that I literally cannot comprehend not having a dance party this weekend or eating at Casa Mariposa on Wednesdsay…or sitting on a friend’s roof watching the sunset over the mountains that have become my compass…what do you mean I won’t be biking to work in the morning, passing the men that have been clients and friends on the way?

I lived in Tucson for a year and it stole my heart hardcore.

Because I’m a sucker for reflections and because I have wanted to badly to be present to this ending, I’ve spent a lot of time the past few weeks trying to process and trying to name exactly what leaving means to me…what this year has meant to me. I’ve read poetry and looked up quotes, but all to no avail. The truth of it is that in a lot of ways I think I’m still just beginning to understand. And the truth of it is that this wonderful, playful, liberating, heart breaking, earth shaking year is so much bigger and messier than any quote, bigger even than a love letter…but I’ll do my best.

Thank you for the mountains.
They calmed and inspired me throughout the year.
No matter how stressful a day at work, the mountains were with me on my bike ride home.
They were there when I went running and they were there on the lazy Saturdays spent reading.
They waited patiently for our hiking adventures. They held the silent moments and the laughter.

Thank you for the sky. The huge sky.
Unblocked by tall buildings or trees.
Thank you for centering me.
Thank you for reminding me that life is meant to be lived as fully and as passionately as the colors of sunset.

Thank you for abandoning time.
When you’re caught up in conversation, how could it be important to be anywhere else?
When it’s 110 degrees outside, how could anyone pretend that you need to hurry?
When you’re powered by pedals or a bus that is carrying countless people in countless directions, time slows back to a human scale. Thank you.

Thank you for your humility.

Thank you for your fun-loving fashion.
Thank you for your thrift stores.

Thank you for your passion and activism.
For the people that keep raising their voices and for they community they build.

Thank you for your murals.
For making underpasses beautiful.
For reminding me to see potential.

Thank you for nourishing me,
For feeding my soul and body.

Thank you for homemade bread, fresh tortillas,

for yoga.
Thank you for crooked sage and upward bow.
For gentle hands and earnest words shifting my focus,
Encouraging proper alignment on the mat,
To remind me of the importance of alignment
off the mat.

Thank you for a studio, a space, that welcomes and encourages. For yoga classes so full that people share mats. For patience. For waiting
for me to get there.

More than anything, thank you for the people. Thank you for my people.
My communities.
My community.
For people that somehow seem to love me, even when I’m boring or forgetful or tired.
For the people with whom I have fallen in love.

The mountains, the sky, the park, the city streets, the roofs that have given us space to explore and to play and to talk and to dance.

This year I surrendered myself and somehow, with the hurdles along the way, week by week and minute by minute, slowly, I grew.

I learned budgeting skills, and just how to strongly word a call to the landlord about broken air conditioning. I know by heart the crisis line. I can fix a flat tire and change my brakes. I can speak up for myself at work. I've made bagels and margaritas. I learned about social security and disability. I know where to send someone needing help to pay for a new birth certificate. I have been outraged at budget cuts. I've seen a saguaro’s flower and gotten hooked on prickly pear lemonade. I learned a bit about U.S. geography. I've gotten an education.

The challenge that I was so craving before I began, at some point I stopped looking for it and allowed life to unfold. I stopped waiting for the ground beneath my feet to shake and allowed the earth to turn at its own pace. And in the end it all happened. And in the end, what got me through it all, were the people, my people, my community, my communities. Rooftop conversations, lunches at picnic tables, candlelit reflections, kitchen table chats. Conversations about the abstract and conversations about our days. So thank you, each of you. I love you.