What Does Your Death Have To Say About It?

At the end of 2018 when I was making the decision to either stay in Chicago or move out to California, I would sit in bed at night, the light of my phone illuminating my face, my fingers tracing Google maps, and I'd imagine myself in a new life. One that was waiting for me once I spoke the words "Yes, I'll take the job." I would scour the cities that surrounded Irvine: Long Beach, Huntington Beach, Newport Beach, Laguna Beach, wondering where California Jenna might root her feet, where her pale skin and deep brown hair might blend in with the sunkissed Californians that made up the entirety of the state within my mind. I noticed the names of streets (Avocado, Ocean, Neptune), the names of restaurants (Santa Monica Seafood, Wild Taco, Bear Flag), and calculated how long it would take me to walk to the beach from prospective apartments. 

When I flew out for the final interview, I got in an Uber from LAX and asked him to drive me down 17th street on the edge of Newport Beach so I could put a visual to the flatness of my Google map exploration. My eyes were distraught. Strip malls, trucks, chain restaurants and the stunning contrast between Southern California suburbia and urban Chicago made the pit of my stomach swell. It was 7:00pm on a Sunday. There were zero pedestrians and only a smattering of restaurant-goers when I arrived at Bear Flag. A sunkissed family with three toe-headed kids who looked like they went to school at the beach. A couple skateboarders. And me, donning black city clothes, a Patagonia coat and a disoriented attitude. Where was everyone? This did not look like how I had envisioned. And for December in the Golden State, it sure felt chilly. I ate my poke, sipped my sauvignon blanc, and decided I'd blow through my Monday morning interview with a polite "no, thanks" already planned for the end. Forget the final offer and the thought of a new life. This was clearly not where I belonged.

Two years later, the palm trees outside my living room window still surprise me. The guys that ride their bikes to the beach with their surfboards as a sidecar still make me smile. And Bear Flag is my first stop when I get back from being out of town (should you find yourself in the vicinity, get the 50/50 poke, which comes with the best tortilla chips your taste buds will ever meet). When I got back from my interview, my gut was telling me to still entertain the possibility. But making the decision to move came with no shortage of tempestuous nights. I would pour over the pros and cons. I probably converted 50 strands of hair from brown to grey as I contemplated the unknown. Would I be able to afford living out there on my own? Would I be skilled enough for the job? Would I make friends? Would I fit in? Would I survive the heartache of leaving my dog, Leland? Am I inclined to say no just because the fear outweighs the curiosity? I stayed in that cyclone for weeks until a friend of mine said "You're a meditator, aren't you? Just meditate on it. Visualize your life there. Visualize your life if you were to stay in Chicago. And go with your gut." 

I smoked a joint. I sat against my headboard. And I closed my eyes. I saw myself learning how to sail. I saw myself becoming friends with my co-workers. I saw myself hiking real mountains. And walking the beach with my coffee. And having bonfires. And meeting Bradley Cooper as I walked the streets of L.A. When I opened my eyes, I wrote the email that changed my life. Yes, I'll take the job. I accept the offer. I am moving to California.

Here's the thing. I didn't know how it would pan out. Moving could have been the gateway to a new personal hell just as much as it could have been the best thing that ever happened to me. Same when I left advertising to pursue fitness. Same when I left West Loop Athletic Club to work for Yoga Six. Same when I decided to get married. And same when I decided to leave that marriage six years later. But in all of those major life changing moments, I look back and can't imagine having stayed. If I had never taken the job in California, I would have always wondered what could have come from it. And that was my main motivator for taking the leap. I didn't know in December of 2018 that I would excel at my job, that I would make lifelong friendships, that I would travel all over the state and get involved in a yoga program that was the catalyst for intense healing.

In a recent podcast I listened to with Tara Brach, she posed the question "What does your death have to say about it?" And when those words traveled through my earbuds and into my brain, it momentarily took my breath away. When faced with a frustrating work debacle, I think about these words. When in conflict with someone else, I think about these words. When making decisions both big and small, I think about these words. What my death has to say about most things is that they're too petty to stress over. The logistics of a move, or the weird thing my Mom said to me, or the look someone gave me. It is so powerful to meditate on your own death, to help put into perspective what you're dealing with in life. Yes, the unknown of this pandemic can be deeply overwhelming. Yes, the tension in my family breaks my heart. Yes, I still think of my dog every single day of my life and the sadness can feel suffocating. In the improv classes I took at Second City I learned to always say "yes, and." Yes, it is overwhelming and my death tells me to find joy whenever and wherever I can. Yes, my heart breaks and sadness eclipses me more often than I'd like and my death says that this makes me a better and more compassionate human being. Yes, the unknown is scary, how I'm going to make my goals happen or where I'll end up living next is undetermined and it makes for one hell of a ride.