moving, moving…

I was worried.

When I made the decision to move, when I set my heart upon it to shut down my life in DC and get on to the next thing, to the next adventure–

I was worried. I thought, I hesitated … I wondered if I’d regret it.

In the middle of the night, I had these misgivings. Was I making the right decision? Maybe I should give it another 12 months. Maybe another 4 months. Get to the end of the year. No, wait until at least my 35th birthday.

Then I realized that this was me making excuses. I knew what I had to do. I knew, I know that at least right now, DC is not the right place for me. I will not sit here and pretend to prognostication about what the future will put in front of me: I could come back. The things that I have come to love about The District have not changed:

  1. It soothes the part of my soul that craves a bit more a chill vibe than NYC or London (or Chicago or Hong Kong or Berlin or any other major city) represents.
  2. This is a outdoorsy, healthy, swim town – love that!
  3. It isn’t an affordable city for everyone, but it’s more affordable than most people recognize.
  4. It can be positively diverse.
  5. Enough airports for me to get out of town when I need and want to get out of town; I’ve yet to be deprived of a flight path that I require.

And I could keep going. The District suited me and for almost 2 years, it has treated me well. It has become home; it has served as an oasis of calm and at a period of my life when I most needed it.

As I pack up my apartment and I go through things – things I brought with me and things I bought here – I am awash in memory. When I got to DC, it was hard for me to distinguish between good and bad; between friend or foe; between hope or loss. It was all wrapped up in a twisted, discordant knot and even as I setup my apartment, and took out my things, everything had a tinge of pain and sadness.

That’s all gone.

Now, I’m able to experience these same memories in an entirely different way. That’s what healing looks like; that’s what healing feels like. My apartment has become this glorious wunderkammern of all these fun, exciting, and meaningful things I’ve experienced over the years.

I’ve had such a good life; the last 12 years have been worthy of any good story, any great movie, and the fact that I have at least another 30 ahead of me, barring disaster or misfortune?

I’m so bloody fortunate!

Packing up my apartment isn’t sad. It isn’t even bittersweet. It feels triumphant. I feel triumphant! I showed up in The District as a wounded, wary animal and I emerge like Thor at the end of Ragnorak; new haircut, better biceps, and a sense of power that isn’t dependent on some external object, job, or person, but is inherent to the state of my being.

I feel pretty damn alive.

So, moving, moving on, moving towards the next madcap parade, the next city, the next big thing that I’ll sink my teeth into to for the next 2-3 years: bring it on! I’m ready!

Let’s get this moving, this carnival, this great and epic adventure, this thing I call my life; let’s get it on the road so we can all see what happens next.


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