Hello, and the Long Goodbye

Today I am leaving California for South Carolina to begin a project that has been on my mind and in my heart for some time. The plan reads simply: Drive around the continental States and visit as many Benedictine and Cistercian monastic communities as I can; write about it.

That’s basically it! That’s the conceit.

I’ve had the summer to prepare for it, and as much as I know I have and am prepared, what could steel me for the aches and pains of saying goodbye? of leaving what has become home again?

From the middle of July to the beginning of August, I lived in residency at La Maison de Beaumont in the Luberon region in the south of France. I spent the time writing, editing, writing, drinking espresso and cheese and wine, and writing some more. I tried to breathe calmly through those three weeks knowing fully well that when I came home to LA, it would be the beginning of the end.

On a street in Ménerbes.

Whether it’s the end of a chapter or the end of a story, I don’t know yet.

It is an ending—this much is clear, so between packing for and organizing my trip, I have taken advantage of the days as best I could. This mostly meant spending time with people I love, returning to places I have cherished these last two years or visiting ones I have never been to, winnowing down a few writing projects to some sorts of finish, and inhaling as much of the sea and emotional smog as my lungs could bear. Put another way, I have spent these last weeks tugging at a few threads of my life in search of their ends, be they knotted with thread left over for future use or frays looking for an open flame.

When I returned from France, I began the long goodbye with a few days in Laguna Beach with my parents, my sister Michaela, and our dog, Becket. If you haven’t met Becket, you should. He’s a mop of a mutt, and I love him dearly. I saw the national tour of Peter Pan at the Segerstrom with some friends; some of the script’s modern “developments” were overwrought, but they couldn’t get in the way of spectacular special effects, excellent singing, and a sincerely meaningful reflection on childhood and adulthood that rips like hell on the heartstrings. I returned to my favorite hike, dubbed the Ferndell to Mount Hollywood Summit Loop on AllTrails, and caught up on podcasts all the way up and all the way down. I lost my Duolingo streak, which is to say I broke a cycle of trauma. I went to Mass at the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels, and I joined my brother Brendan and sisters Mary and Elizabeth for the Dodgers-Pirates game, followed by dinner with friends at the Grove. This last week, I helped one friend move a couch into his new apartment, went thrifting with another at Out of the Closet in WeHo, and before I leave come Sunday morning, I will have gotten one last coffee with especially dear friends whom I have known since high school, the last time I lived in California .

Griffith Observatory in front of Downtown Los Angeles from Mount Hollywood.

I love these places, I love these people, and I will miss all terribly.

There was one place with certain people I did not expect to visit again so soon, but two weeks ago or so, a friend and old coworker of mine reached out. She began with a few questions about curriculum and rounded out the conversation asking if I just might be available to substitute teach the grades 9, 10, and 11 religion classes for a few weeks. I explained I simply couldn’t commit to most of August, but I would let her know what I could do as soon as I could. That’s the short story of how I ended up back at my old teaching job for the first three days of the school year.

I say “old” like it wasn’t mere months ago I was finishing up my second year teaching.

I’m glad I did it. Teach, yes, but right now I’m especially glad I went back for a few days as a sub. It was more important than I realized to have time to talk and hang with the students I had left in June. The way things had played out, I had to make the final decision not to return only after the students had already been dismissed for summer vacation, so I had no last chance to talk to the kiddos and say our goodbyes. Going back, even for so brief a spell, gave me the opportunity to be honest and real with them, to explain myself as best as I could, and to give them a proper “see you later.” Because I don’t like saying “goodbye.” There’s something very final about it, something finished, so I reserve the word for when I really mean it. I had never said goodbye to these kids, and I had never had any intention to do so. Even now, having seen them again and said “see you later” properly, I am firm in my belief that “goodbye” is unsuitable.

I feel this way about all of LA, where I live; the IE, where I grew up; the OC, where I go for the beach; all of SoCal. I keep coming back, after all, and I don’t think that’s finished for me. I’ve had a very, very good two years living in South Park, working in Playa Del Rey, hiking Mount Hollywood and Los Leones, swimming in Laguna, walking Becket up and down Euclid Avenue, going out to Davey Wayne’s and Tramp Stamp Granny’s, going to Mass at all varieties of different churches, and rediscovering the area that raised me. You can’t go back home, as they say, and I didn’t. I just made it home again.

These weeks have been a long goodbye to these last two years. A long see-you-soon, rather. Leaving necessarily begins another story, be it a next chapter or a sequel, so this is just par for the course. But leaving somewhere, I am arriving somewhere else—and will be arriving at many somewheres else in the coming months—and a good place to start when you get there is with a kind “hello.” 

Hello, Substack. Hello, readers and anyone who got lost on their way somewhere else and landed here. Hello, whatever’s next. And to whom and what I’m leaving in SoCal, see you soon.