The time I woke up at 5:30 and drove for 2 hours to the high desert for coffee

OK. It wasn't just for coffee.

But that certainly sounds better than "I drove 2 hours to the high desert to give an assembly on climate change."

But, in typical Jess fashion, I researched a local coffeeshop before I left LA, and drove through the rain, up the mountain to this tiny little coffeeshop with blue couches and surprisingly delicious coffee, arriving 3 hours before my appointed time.

The drive to the high desert is striking. I've seen it in broad daylight, with clear skies and high winds. But this morning, I drove through a rain storm. There is only one road that goes through the mountains, and it's framed by foothills that rise out of nowhere, creating drastic valleys and canyons of light pink rock. The fog was heavy, and while the mountains loomed not far at all on the horizon, they were hidden through the thick shroud until I drove around a corner or down into a canyon and suddenly they would appear, massive and grey and endless. They seemed to be visual echoes of one another, dark blue, then paler and paler in the distance, until you only see a faded outline, thousands of feet in the sky.

For some reason, the scenery reminded me of the small village I visited outside of Naples 5 years ago, around this time. Perhaps it was the drama of the foothills. I spent the majority of my drive reflecting on the courage that was elicited while traveling alone for so long. It's interesting, the layers of ourselves that come out unexpectedly-- rising so quietly that you don't even realize who you're becoming until you're already there, or maybe (in my case) you're already past it, and you look back and realize how brave you actually were. I'm not sure if that makes any sense.

Back at the coffeeshop, I overhear a conversation between three mothers, talking about their children going off to college. One of them tells a story about creating a fake instagram account, posing as a hot blonde from San Diego, to keep tabs on her son while he's away. Genius. and Hilarious.  I'm so glad these things didn't exist while I was in school.  Kids beware.

Across from me sits a young man, and he's twirling his pen like I used to imagine all my favorite writers would before writing a novel or a poem. I wonder what it must be like, growing up in a town like this. It reminds me a lot of where I grew up, actually, except maybe more depressed. It could just be the rain though. And the lack of trees.

(UPDATE: He was writing a poem.)

That time I moved across the country just because I needed a change of scene...

There is no easy way to begin this. So I’ll just dive in.

I’ve stifled my narrative voice for some time now… most of my mid-twenties. I’ve kept it on a shelf, next to books on narrative, hoping I could make myself into an analyst as opposed to some sort of key actor.

But lets not fool ourselves.  Life is too short to be constantly analyzing in the third person.

I have decided to begin for three main reasons:

1.  Life is more fun when in story form. Particularly adventure story. And while it’s true that I don’t live the most glamorous captivating life, being able to reflect on the mundane realities seems more fun than just turning on Netflix, making popcorn and passing out.
2.  My post-adolescent whiny phase is over. (I hope.) I left a lot of that in the nations capital, along with the 24^th, 25^th, and 26^th years of my life. While I have intentions to visit the district again, I have no intention of revisiting that angsty area of my life. So if I begin to brood, I give you, dear reader, full permission to yell “snap out of it!” at the screen. And hope I hear you. 
3. This is the most important reason. I have a terrible memory, and know that there will come a day when I will want to look back and remember what life was like at age 27, unmarried, vegan, hopelessly idealistic, completely broke, in Los Angeles.

So let’s begin with that.

I decided  to move across the country almost exactly 6 months ago. In the span of 2 weeks, I packed up all of my stuff that I could fit into a car, gave away everything else, and drove across the country to a city I've only seen in movies. No I don't want to be an actor/model/musician/famous. I left the District of Columbia and headed to Los Angeles for.... a non-profit job.

Oh hello, Irony.

I’ve been wondering for quite sometime now when LA will begin to feel like home. I have an urge to buy paintings, bright woven rugs, plants and lamps... pretty much anything I can think of to make it feel more cozy. But buying things isn't really going to help and I know it.

This aside, I am happy. I’m happier here than I’ve been in a long time, anyway. The sun is always shining, 50 degrees F is "freezing" and I live a mile from the ocean. I get paid to inspire young people to become environmental leaders. 16-year old me would be so proud. It's not perfect-- some day, I'll shoot for something that maybe allows me to eat more than beans and rice--  but it's great for now.  I feel like I have a purpose, and that I'm actually working on something that makes a tangible positive impact in the world. That's all I think anyone in my generation can really hope for.

I'm off to make those lentils and rice.