it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

I just moved to a new neighborhood.

I don’t love moving, and this one was my third move in four years.

But it feels right.

I spent two years living in a city where I felt like a misfit – a fish out of water. I felt like I was suffocating much of the time – and I never really ever felt completely safe. Sure, I found and cultivated sweet community while I was there, but I always felt like a part of myself was dormant, lost. And, while I do not love the labor it takes to leave somewhere, I do not know that I have ever been more glad to leave somewhere in my life.

I spent a year hiding out. In a little nook, with nothing but wild, untamed nature as my companion.  I think I needed a year of detox.  I needed to look out my window and see trees...just trees...no concrete.  I needed to rediscover myself and remember how to let my soul breathe again.  I needed to learn how to listen to the silences.

And now I’m here.

Yesterday I went for a walk, and at one point, I looked to my left and saw a community garden, each raised bed marked with a hand-painted sign identifying the caretaker responsible for tending it.  I looked to my right and saw a woman asleep on her roof.  And somehow, in that moment, I knew this was the neighborhood for me.

This evening, I wandered to the park which is a mere half block from my house. Every Thursday in the summer, there is a concert. And, around 5:55, right on time, people starting coming out of the woodwork, picnic dinners and lawn chairs in tow.

It was a Klezmer band tonight.

And there may or may not have been people dancing in the grass.

They also may or may not have been more than twice my age.

There are moments, when I’m sitting in my sun porch (yes, I have a sun porch), nibbling on chocolate and freshly-picked cherries, sipping a glass of wine…when a part of me misses my nook. Misses looking out the window and seeing trees and nothing else.  Misses the stillness, the energy of the quiet.

But, then there are also moments, when I'm sitting in my sun porch (yep, still have a sun porch), sipping my glass of wine, and I look across the street to see another woman appear on her balcony with her own glass of wine.
And in a moment, I know it’s going to be OK.

There are still silences to be listened to.  There is still space for soul-breathing.  There are still trees, abundant.

And there are people - there is community - to share them with.