Letter No. 1: Near and Far

Chicago is home. It has been for a long time now. It birthed Ada many moons ago, or at least that’s what it feels like.

But connection is near and far.

Have you ever fallen out of love with something? Not a person necessarily, though maybe that too. I mean a way of living. Have you ever done something every day and realized you don’t love it anymore? People say that’s normal. Especially with work. The gain is hefty, so you keep going.

I used to say I didn’t want to do anything I had to step outside myself for. I wanted to love my life. I wanted to make money being me.

At least, I thought it a lot. I’m not sure I ever said it out loud.

I was a girl who didn’t go to college and yet somehow found herself to be wildly talented.

Only on the inside, though.

Kind of like a vegetable that grows underground. You know it’s there. You know it’s becoming something. But from above the soil, there’s not much to see.

I was hosting and serving then. And don’t get me wrong, I loved the connection it brought. I loved remembering someone’s drink order. Lingering at a table because the conversation was good. Watching people celebrate birthdays or first dates or Tuesdays that felt important for no reason at all.

Still, I couldn’t help but feel like I was supposed to be on the other side.

You know, coming in for a peach Bellini at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday.

Not because I thought I was above the work. Quite the opposite. I think it taught me one of the most important things I know now: people are endlessly fascinating.

And maybe that’s all I’ve ever been after.

Not freedom exactly.

Connection.

The kind that stretches.

The kind that reaches near and far.

A friend and I are reading The Correspondence. The main character, Sybil, spends her life writing letters to people. She reaches far beyond her inner circle, beyond her household, even beyond her hometown, just to ask someone what they eat for breakfast or how school was that day.

Sure, I could turn to my neighbor and ask the same thing.

But it doesn’t quite set me on fire the way reaching across does.

There’s something about knowing there are entire worlds living inside people you’ll never meet unless you decide to cross the distance.

I think Sybil and I are alike in that way.

Anyway, I’m sitting here in Chicago, a place that’s been home to Ada for five years now, thinking about all the ways a person can remain open.

I’d like to settle everywhere and nowhere.

Most importantly, I am open.

And maybe that’s why you’ll see me poking my head into other cities from time to time. Not because Chicago isn’t enough. Chicago made me. It gave me Ada.

But connection is near and far.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself, it’s that I love to reach.

Warmly,

Ada

P.S. I finally turned comments on. Write me back.