The leaves were just beginning to fall into their varying shades of golden hues.  It was something that I had known since I was a small child, evidenced by the crumbled note written in a seven year old's penmanship that my mother found in her drawer with other treasures of childhood--a lock of hair, old report cards, Mother's Day sentiments pouring through crayon and red construction paper.  I was meant to-- and determined to--live in New York City, but the moment it came felt like diving into the deep end of a pool knowing that the water was going to be cold.  The story could be summed up as small town girl meets the big city with a dangerous mix of strength, passion, attitude, detachment, loneliness, hope and just enough experience to believe in the final 1% of herself to make a dream or two come true, but there was a bit more to the story . . .

  After the typically challenging search of finding an apartment in New York City that had all of the features I wanted, but within a certain limited price range, I moved to a quiet, quaint street on the midpoint of October.  I had no furniture other than a friend's old futon, a lamp and a small table.  A flourishing green plant that a friend gave as a housewarming gift has survived the year and still flows out of the white and green ceramic pot sitting on my mantle. We've both grown a lot in the past twelve months. 

  I was used to beating the odds. A life-threatening, supposedly incurable illness that permeated my teen years and then, the personal experience of a violent crime I narrowly escaped from alive were enough to convince me that there is little I couldn't survive through. There is something seductive and magical about the energy of the city--a light whose shadow can be as equally strong.  Those first months were a hazy blur of working endless hours, meeting new people, trying not to meet as many new people, sitting home alone in my own small four beige walls, always running trying to catch an elusive moment of freedom for myself when the world wasn't on the brink of falling apart.  It brought the end of a relationship, the start of a new job and the rapid end of it when the boss was found to be allegedly embezzling, the development of a new relationship whose door closed before it had a chance to be open and more questions than answers.  The phoenix of my resourcefulness and fortitude was forced to rise daily through my footprints in the snow.  

  Relatively introverted by nature and capable of being content with my own solitude, I forced myself out of my shell and into the world--a butterfly emergence of sorts.  I witnessed the creation of a musical artist making an album from the inside out and played a role in the furthering of her career. I befriended people on all socioeconomic, educational, and levels of cool--from the famous to the forgotten.  My desire for sincere connection overshadowed both obstacles and at times, my own logic.  I discovered new music, new art, new architecture, new sights and undiscovered the simple, quiet parts of myself--only to be revisited and recaptured on necessary trips away from New York City.  Montreal saved my sanity after witnessing candles through the window of an ex-boyfriend's apartment that were not lit for me and Seattle rejuvenated my soul mere weeks before getting lost in the woods in the Catskill Mountains in only a bathing suit and shoes while on a camping trip.  When in doubt, follow the path that will take you home, even when it meanders through unfamiliar and tricky territory. Just remember to avoid the bears. 

  I learned to pray again.  Often, for the subway to come faster to alleviate my perpetual and temporary phase of always being late.  Distance in practice is longer than distance in theory. I began reading voraciously again and set book quotas per week for myself.  Pointless goals still amuse me and give the illusion, if not the reality, of progress.  Kind of like making the bed each day. No one will know if I don't, but my day doesn't start feeling complete until I do.  I know.  And, in this year, I've learned much more of who I am and far less of what I thought I knew. I still breathe each day in more and more fully simply because I can. 

  One of my greatest lessons and challenges has been to embrace not only the unknown, but the moments when what is known is so frighteningly small compared to what I want to know that it feels like comparing a raindrop to the Milky Way.  I don't sit by the phone anymore.  I still resist accepting what I want to be when I grow up with the exception of one piece of my future that I can't wait for and feel beyond excited at the thought of experiencing.  I must create whether I wish to or not.  It's so intimately linked to every other part of my being. It's still easier for me to support other people and love them unconditionally than it is for me to shine that light upon myself, but my need for acceptance has all but vanished.  More surprisingly than I can articulate and with the exception of my very close loved ones, I can fully disregard both the praises and curses of the world with a momentary shrug of the shoulders.

  This has been the only year in my thirty years in which I have not had the privilege of caring for a pet, which could explain my attraction to friends' feline and canine friends.  When my cat, who lived with my parents, disappeared two months and three days after I left, a part of my heart was carved out.  I spent endless hours searching for her only ever finding her in my dreams.  People surmised that she had gone to look for me. I suppose that I had left to look for me, too. 

  As the summer sun reached the pavement outside of my building, love shocked me to the core by ending unexpectedly.  Without explanation that made sense to me, I came to terms with the fact that 'goodbye' was all of the information I was going to receive and perhaps, that was all I needed.  Grief has its own timeline and that it pushed my shoulders down beneath the surface at 200MPH turned out to be its greatest gift to me.  My lessons came flooding in the moment the tears stopped and were so startling, they returned the breath I had given away into the illusion of trying to be the perfect girlfriend.  When one door closed and after I stood there in the darkness of the doorway for a moment--eyes shut and fists clenched, my window opened. Or more aptly, it slammed opened so loudly, it woke up every part of me.  And, I began to feel just fine. 

  More time passed and my life blossomed again when I walked into a local restaurant to meet friends--one of whom had promised to change a light bulb in my apartment weeks before. I wanted to live with light again.  A casual glance to my left ignited something unlike anything else before. Three hours later the restaurant was closing, as my heart was opening. 

  The leaves are again changing, the trees outside of my bedroom window stand tall much like when I first arrived and green is giving way to golden.  The days are getting noticeably shorter and soon, the leaves will paint the sidewalk with nature's own touch, crunching with every step beneath my feet, as I go about my day. I've noticed that I'm not running so much anymore.  A neighbor who would see me dashing like a bolt of lightening at all times of the day and night would often inquire where I was in such a hurry to get to.  Had I said "my future," the ensuing explanation would have likely slowed me down even more, so one word replies with a smile became my escape. "Work" and "food" seemed to elicit the most understanding of head nods.