i wasn't ready yet when we moved. i couldn't see our new life in my mind - the new light switch i'd be reaching for at night, the color of the front door. i didn't know what the water would taste like out of the tap.

those things matter when you leave a place. i needed to be able to see where i was going. and i couldn't. i didn't know SO. MANY. THINGS. and that scared me.

but we moved anyway - and i was hollowed out by it. the dreaded empty apartment, the mewing cats on the plane, the months away from our books, sheets, couch. life resumed in a bland corporate apartment four stories high in minneapolis.

in new york, four stories is basically street level; it's not enough to see past the buildings around you or the sky. but in minnesota? four stories is a skyscraper and everyday i'd wake up to gray gray gray all around in a lonely and heartbreaking march. but, like clockwork, every evening around 5pm, the sky would break into pink purple peach watercolors. months later, i met a meteorologist who explained that peak heat and sun in minneapolis is  between 5 and 7pm because of its latitude.

at first, everything new felt alien - a reminder that i didn't belong, didn't know anyone or anything. the water tasted weird, the flat sunlight felt oppressive, the lack of bustling crowds made me more lonely.

going back to new york frequently for work wasn't helping at first. the contrast strained my ability to pay attention to my new surroundings - all i could see in the first couple months was how minneapolis wasn't new york.

but those evening colors were a balm to my sadness. i'd sit on our 3x3 patio and read, sneaking peeks at the colors each time they seemed to shift. and slowly, slowly, i started to feel more like myself again.

upon announcing our move, a good friend hypothesized that perhaps this adventure might be a little like medicine - not something we particularly want to take, but something that might be deeply good for us nonetheless.

we bought a house on my 32nd birthday - a 100 year old midwestern four square that had been deeply and messily loved. we stumbled upon a group of friends who included us on an epic night at the state fair, with bumper cars, 4H milkshakes and cotton candy as expected. i started listening to my body more and clearing space in my head for dreaming. the cats now see rabbits, cardinals and chipmunks from the porch. the sunday times is delivered to our door and the neighbor's kid mows the lawn.

i don't know what comes next, really. there isn't closure to that part of the story yet, we're still living it day to day. maybe the midwest is our secret forever home; maybe we're just halfway through with our cross country move and taking a long break. but the not knowing part, the part that used to scare me? i'm cured of that.
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