Winds of Change
The trees of my youth, elms and ash, willow and pear, are tossed with the billowing wind of a wild and rough thunderstorm.
It blows in across the valley in great big gusts of wind and in sheets of white rain. Lightning strikes across the valley as I secure the windows above my bed, and I hear the answering thunder roar.
I love thunderstorms. I love the mighty way they change the world. The smell of rain, the power in the air. The way the shadows deepen and the wind speaks of things to come.
These winds bring change. Big change.
Today I officially decided that I am moving out of New York City.
It's been a week or so of tough decision making. But that little voice inside of me that whispers softy "this" when I stand outside my cabin at night, head tilted back, drinking in the sky, or gazing at the rugged and familiar outline of my mountains against the sunrise. That leaps up as I sit with my family, their voices alive with laughter that echos softly against the tire walls of my father's living room. That little voice yearns to be heard, to be felt; to be more than a little voice, and instead to become a part of my voice, unshielded and unrestrained from the troubles borrowed from a busy life.
And so I yield, and I listen.
I admit, in making this decision, I have my misgivings. I am sad to leave my city, leaving behind the dreams I've spent careful time spinning and dreaming, in between late night shifts at the club and early morning subway rides to school, practicing my lines for class under my breath. I am sad to leave the bustle, the chaotic joy of so much humanity living together on one tiny little island. And sad to leave the glowing potential for deep inspiration, possibility, connection and art. And the glowing people who have given me the deep and unutterable gifts of just that.
But then I look at my mountains, the ones that have stood strong and steady for centuries, the ones I measure my own growth by, I feel a sense of purpose, that no matter how much I love the city, it cannot give to me. I look at the faces of my friends, of my family and the warmth, the heart in the smiles, and touches and laughter that they share with me and I feel something deep inside of me alive and burning.
Love lives here.
And I am reminded that sometimes the roads that we see as the least logical, the least likely, are sometimes the roads that take us to our true destinations. If we have the courage to walk them.
And so I trust and take a step down this path.
In making this choice I have come straight up against my own belief that if I move back to Colorado I will have somehow failed. And that failing is weakness. And that weakness is bad.
It gives me the opportunity to look at the choices and beliefs I am given in my life.
But here's the truth; I don't feel like I have failed. I feel as if I have triumphed.
Moving two thousand miles away from my roots, to put myself through acting school, learning from people who inspire me, finishing with a scholarship and a deep sense of purpose in my craft; living in a city that I love, with 5 women who I have grown to adore; Learning how to support myself on my own, working two jobs, making new friends and learning the underground language of this city; and, how to cultivate joy in the busy bustle of modern day life in this urban metropolis. And how to be strong enough to love it.
I moved to New York City because it made me happy. Not because I was chasing some illusion of success.
But success is measured by our own human hearts. And to me, this past year has brought me so much growth, so much learning and so much courage that it has given me exactly what I needed from it, no matter the amount of paper money in my bank account.
And that's what it all boils down to, really. At the end of my life, I want to know that I did everything I could to dance closer to the center of myself and to that inner, divine, connection with the heart of life. That's what my journey is about. Loving, full-heartedly and being loved.
I am so excited about these next few months, getting to walk barefoot in the sandy clay with my pup, and pick apples and make pies, slowly, with my hands. I am excited about time, time to spend in the mountains, and with my family. Creating and camping some of my favorite people. Time to work on my writing and time to make music and films. I am looking forward to working at the local coffee shop, and saving money for this next adventure of learning and traveling abroad for school come January. And I am excited to love. Because for too long have I bridled my heart and barred my true honesty of care for the people who deserve to be loved, whole heartily and without looking back.
So this juncture in my road, as I jump from one track of city living back onto off-grid living, and bare foot dancing and night sky watching I find a strength I didn't have before residing deep within me. And it's strong, and it sings to me of the life yet to be lived within me, the adventures yet to be taken, the places yet to be visited, the inspiration waiting to be found, the flights yet to be boarded and the love yet to be loved.
Thank you New York, for everything you have taught me, for the late night pizza slices, the dances to busking musicians in Washington Square park, for January snowstorms, for the jobs and the places and friends I have gotten to call home. Thank you for the subway rides and the cold and the heartbreak. For the suspended moments of magic, of inspiration, ambition, extreme grace and of love. Thank you for the people I have had the privilege to meet and love under your metallic and neon sky. And thank you for loving me back. I love you New York. I love you forever.
But new adventures here we come.
Here we go.