Spring Street

Before last week’s trip to Denver, I was constantly fearful that old habits I acquired over the last decade in New York would resurrect themselves.  I’ve spent so much time over the last year trying to soften my thoughts and calm my racing mind. I’ve shifted how I think, live, and work by eliminating excess. I worry that these practices are in jeopardy in a city where speed, indulgence, and instant gratification are ubiquitous. Can I still thrive in a place this tough, intense, passionate, and fast, while achieving a state of health and balance? I ask myself this question constantly and find myself repeatedly running away from New York in the process.

Sometimes this city swallows me whole. The buildings tower over me and I look down at my feet, avoiding their gaze. I witness people scowl at each other with disdain on crowded subway platforms while performing random acts of unkindness. But then there are days like today where the buildings feel like they’re in bloom, beacons of light stretching like spring time blossoms reaching for the skies. Streets I’ve walked down hundreds of times greet me like an old friend.

I recently wrote about my wanderlust and this persistent itch pulling me away from the city. I’m still very much on the move, but today was the first day all year that I’ve felt my beloved, precious New York whisper the words, “You’re home.”  And it was the first time in a long time I could hear myself say, “I know. I think I’ll stay.”

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