Tomorrow morning I am flying home to Asheville, North Carolina to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with my parents. I just finished packing a small suitcase, and now I'm about to get ready for bed. Before I snuggle into my not so warm air mattress, I'll probably stand at my window like I do every night and take a few minutes to appreciate the day, the moment and what I have.
On August 1, I left North Carolina with all of my possessions packed into a stow-and-go rental minivan. No apartment, no job and no one awaited me. It was just the city and me. My first night, Terrence had asked me what was next.
"So what are you going to do tomorrow?" he had asked. My reply had been: "I don't know."
And I loved that answer.
There is still a lot I don't know, but there is so much that I feel. Having been the consummate planner throughout the majority of my life thus far, it's that kind of "not knowing" that makes me feel so alive.
Each night the lights in Jersey dance on the Hudson River, and from my 9th floor window, the red light on the antennae of the Empire State Building winks at me from midtown. I can't see the building itself over the rooftops, but on clear nights like tonight, the blinking red light gives me that knowing wink and makes me feel like a New Yorker.
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