Sons could be birds, taken broken up to the mountain

At 12:02 p.m., I was formally marooned here. There is a sort of instinctive realization as to what all this entails, but as I rode with my mom to Reagan it was acknowledged only through exchanged glances. It's hard to watch tears seep out and realize that the point of no return was passed long ago. There's no excitement about the opportunity I have here; it's a means to an end. I've left my family, and it hurts like Holy Hell.

I stood above the main terminal floor and watched my mother go through the TSA checkpoint. I watched as she put her purse through screening, wiped her eyes and headed to her gate. She didn't look back for me; as it is customary for members of the Harris clan to do. We embrace the finality of moments like these, as pragmatism trumps hyperbole. During the deliberations about sending me to coast, there was a conscious effort to set emotion aside: screw the 945 miles, it's only distance.

That logic, though, can appear to come across as merely hiding fear of the unknown. For me, it's a fear I've embraced whole-heartedly. I'm living in a studio apartment in northern Virginia looking to compete with the best in my profession covering one of the toughest beats around. In all likelihood, I'm going to take a couple swift kicks in the face of my ego. But to not be bloodied and bruised in one's life is to have never known what it is like to try. I would rather fail, knowing this is not the job for me, than to dance tepidly around the whole issue. I did that a year ago, staying in Columbia to work for the Missourian and regretted it ever since.

Perhaps that's what this process is: an exercising of demons; a purging of self-doubt. Fear gripped me for the first two years of college. I feared flunking out. I feared working at The Maneater. I feared failing at the Missourian. I feared dating a woman I cared about. My drive was a product of a desire to be the best, but it was also the product of a man who lacked faith in himself. It was a simple logic: Better to a big fish in a little pond than the open sea. Ultimately, adhering to this course would have kept me in Columbia, scared and bitter.

My mom and dad knew as much, too. Unfailingly, they took all of two minutes in deciding that I needed to move east. How was I to become a full-fledged an adult if I stayed in my hometown for the first 22 years of my life? How was I to make good on the promise I had and their faith in me? Through frustration, worry, and tears, they have helped bring me here and to this point. While scant tears were shed, I will miss them probably more than I ever realized. I'll miss my brother, whose relationship is as honest as any I've ever known. He knows, though, this is what I need.

So as I sit in a studio apartment with a pullout bed, a walk-in closet and a 20-inch color TV, I set about my task. Meanwhile, Iron & Wine's "Upward Over the Mountain" plays in the background. God help me, I'm going to need it.

A Preface

As I rode the orange line into D.C. proper, I was thinking about the best way to stay in touch with all my compatriots in Columbia. Yes, e-mail is practical, but to me it's a cumbersome process. Honestly, it's the equivalent of writing a letter to a dear friend, and that is something that I don't think can be done in haste. Instant messaging would suffice; yet it can be hard to go into too much detail. I decided a blog would be the best remedy. Why? Well, it allows me to explain what's going on in my life as it happens and fits into peoples' schedules better. I can write when I have time, and you all can read (and comment) at your leisure.

What material will be included in my posts is hard to define with any precision. I'm going to air on the side of caution, considering I'm working for a newspaper's bureau office. In general, it will probably be a rundown of the day's events and how I'm handling the living situation here. Other than that, I can't really speculate all that much.

Anywho, that's all I have for now.