The familiarity of sound

With summer starting to poke it's head through my curtains, I've gotten into the habit of leaving my windows open and blinds slightly cracked to catch the breeze - one of the many advantages of living so close to the beach, for all my complaints about how this area may never be a home to me, it certainly is a nice place for temporary dwelling when conditions are ideal - which is generally at least 7 months out of the year when the heat is just right and the humidity isn't out of control.

For the past few days, I've become accustomed to the sound of the fountain outside my apartment shutting off abruptly around 11 pm and then cranking on every morning at 7 am. It's a sound I never really noticed before, something that I honestly took for granted the last few months that was a big positive point when I first moved in, rather than having other apartments or woods to look at, I had the fountain, I had the sound of water to wake up to and then if I wasn't content with the sound, I only had a 15 minute walk to get to the beach.

I never realized how much sounds matter to me until I really began to concentrate on waiting for that 7 am waterfall to begin to flow, my indicator that it was truly time for me to get my day started if I hadn't already. Before, when I lived with my grandparents, I would laze about upstairs until I heard my grandmother making her breakfast: tea in the morning, with toast, and two hard boiled eggs.

It was like clockwork.

I knew that once I made my way down the stairs, I could expect to see her at the table in the kitchen, fully dressed for her day, newspaper laid flat where she would be working out the crossword puzzle and occasionally stealing glances out the window she faced while she sipped her morning brew.

Familiar like the sound of the garage door opening at our old home in North Carolina. Knowing that I could almost count down the seconds it would take for my mother or father to open the door and turn off the alarm.

It's little things, that move us forward like clockwork. It's the sound of my grandfather bellowing out through the house What up spook to my mother or to me, it's my mom jokingly telling my dad You're not the boss of me, you can't tell me what to do, with a scowl on her face before laughing.

It's hearing my own laugh and realizing just how much I sound like my own mother that went from being something scary to something comforting...the knowledge that even when we're far apart, that I can always have that as a reminder of where I came from.

It's the little things, the rhythm I've created at work when putting my stories to tape, the way that someone says something the same way every time, the staccato form our weekend weatherman says the news starts right now, while the evening weatherman almost sings it to viewers...it's sounds that we just learn.

I remember sitting up at night at my great grandmother's house in Philly and listening to the sounds of the street. Cars speeding, ambulances, firetrucks, police cars, all these sounds turning into a lullaby of sorts in the summer.

I remember the song my grandfather and I call ours...and listening to it almost always makes me cry because it reminds me just how close he and I are.

While there are plenty sounds that I love, a fresh rain storm, kids playing outside laughing, mothers cooing their children into submission, there's nothing that comforts more than the sounds that I know definitively; the things that never change that have become engraved in my being as a small nook to escape into when the world is so loud and I need some peace.

Homeward bound

I don't think I've had a more genuine cry as I did on Sunday at 12:39 pm.

Every now and then, you have a moment that touches you to your core, that really stirs your heart and makes you think and Sunday at 12:39 pm, I had mine.

The Arnold family in all their glory before
I started a mini sob fest on the train.

This weekend I went to see my parents at their new home in Virginia, while there I saw one of my four sisters, grandparents on all sides, my aunts and cousins, and a handful of friends - and to say that I felt at home and in the right place would be a gross understatement. I was the happiest that I'd been over those 3 days than I had been in a long time. It wasn't a fleeting happiness either, it was a wake up in the morning and look forward to my day type of happiness that hasn't been present in my life so strongly for about a year.

I traveled, via car and two trains, from Panama City Beach to Manassas, VA, for about a full day and half both ways and it wasn't until my second trip, the one back to Florida that it hit me just how much I didn't want to come back to Florida.

There's something to be said about spending 6 years away from all your close family. It's one thing if you dislike your family or if you don't trust your family, but it's never been that way for me. My family has always been a rock for me, a part of my core. When I went away to college, I was fine, I could see them over the summer or over the winter break and they didn't seem so far away, but by the end of my freshman year, I was ready to drop out of UF, transfer to a new school, and leave the state behind. I don't know if I was desperate to get out of where I was or if I just needed a change, or if I thought running away was the answer. I've only been in one other situation in my life where I've truly wanted to leave somewhere and never come back, and that was when I maybe 10.

There's a small part of me that wishes that I had transferred out...but I know that the bargain that I made with myself and with God about my decision to stay had amazing results, and the people that became my second family, my children, my residents, became the things that kept me going...because I didn't want them to hate their new home as much as I did in that first year.

It wasn't until I was on a train watching my mom search for my face and having her stop - still unable to see me - and have her still be looking me dead in the eye that it hit me what I've missed so much.

The people I've met here have been some of the sweetest, most caring individuals you could ever find. They've let me into their homes, cooked for me, helped me when I was down and out with literally nothing but a deflated air mattress and a laptop...but for all their efforts to be there for me, they don't know me. No matter how much I may open up, they still won't completely understand who I am, where I came from, or what I'm really like - simply because they haven't seen me - and I miss that.

I miss intimacy - not a closeness to a person, but the lack of fear that when I'm exposed that I will still be loved and cared for, that I won't be looked at in shame or anger. It's a feeling I got when I started dancing with my family and caught my cousin taking blackmail worthy video, it's the feeling I got while sitting and drinking with a close friend that I hadn't seen in years, it's the feeling I got when sharing secrets about fears and being a grownup with my cousin...it's the exposure that I've tried to develop with people here that I simply don't seem to have the ability to facilitate.

I don't know if the reason I cried when I left Manassas was because I missed being near my family, I'm sure that it was a piece of bigger puzzle, but I think what I really missed was the comfort of being home despite being in an area I'd never been before. I missed being raw, honest, open and not being scared that I would turn people off to me - because these people have seen me at my worst and they didn't run away then.

I've come to accept that the phrase home is where the heart is isn't as much about love, but about feeling the freedom of intimacy and closeness, the ability to be open and honest with no fear of rejection. It's not something that can be grown just anywhere - it's in special friendships, special relationships that we turn from two people into a true love bond, and I hope that one day, whether I'm close to family or not, that I'm able to call someplace my home.

An ode to my first home.

Humble beginnings, man I tell ya.

For me, moving into my first "home" or at least my first apartment was a big step. I've spent my entire life surrounded by people at basically all parts of my life and now, for a little over a year, I've been alone.

This weekend was one of the most stressful and emotional times I've experienced while living here. Who knew being alone could be so painful and lonely? Not me.

I've lived the majority of my life moving around, making new friends, and for some reason, I thought this move would be just like all the rest, a standard, pick up and go. I understood at my core that I wouldn't know anyone in the area, that it would basically be college all over again, but this was different than college all over again, because in college we're all alone, we're all starting somewhere new and while some of us came in with friends, many of us didn't know that many and we were all wide open for new people to invade our most private and precious spaces.

It's different now.

This home will be one of the hardest things to leave once it's time to go. Sure, it's a tiny one bedroom apartment, but it's my first place where I had to struggle with some inconvenient truths, like the fact that there is a whole lot of month when you're in your first job. That sometimes, the best thing you can do is sit on a couch and cry. That painting can be very therapeutic…and so can cooking when it comes out right.

In this apartment, I got a full grasp of the kindness of others. At least 2/3 of the things that are in my apartment were given to me and while the walls may be bare, the love that fills this place does so much more. In this apartment, I've had people come, pour out their hearts and grow close to one another, it's here that I truly learned compassion, it's here that I truly experienced transparency.

It was here that I cried out to God, screamed about life, fought with Him about what I believed and why I was here. Tried to uncover what I truly cared about and what I thought was right. It was here that He met me and taught me so much more about love and acceptance, mercy and faith. It was here that I recommitted, here that I sat and read my Bible and journaled. It was here that I changed.

This small tender space has seen me grow in ways that others couldn't. It's watched me learn how to organize my bills, clean, play guitar, and learn to live without…and to be content in that.

Home sweet home.

In my short 23 years of life, I've been unsure of many things. I wasn't positive that I would be able to do this, but I knew that I didn't have a choice and that when it came down to it, I would have to buck up and face the situations given to me. Moving to Panama City Beach with a laptop, a suitcase full of clothes, and an air mattress was one of the boldest moves of my life. It had one guarantee: an opportunity to follow my dream, but nothing else. It did not promise me friends that would be like family, it didn't promise me happiness, it didn't promise me fulfillment, it promised a chance…so I took it.

And for that Panama City Beach will always have a piece of my heart.