Four days of nonstop moving, shopping, unpacking, breaking down boxes, trying to suppress the outrage of my inner environmentalist who weeps at the small mountain of post-consumer waste I've accumulated, re-organizing books and clothes and kitchen knick-knacks, and I am finally all settled into my new-old apartment in Mount Vernon.
I don't know if I agree with the adage that you can't go home again; something about this place just feels right. Maybe it's the perfect location with a view of the park, or the fifteen-foot-high south-facing windows that shower the room with warm light at all hours of the day, the open loft floor plan, the ample closet space...
Or maybe it's just nice to once again have a place to call my own, an oasis of solitude in the bustling city, a well-lit cave to which my introversion can escape whenever I am feeling alone in a crowded room.
My desk fits perfectly in the nook of one of the windows. As I sit here typing people walk by on the sidewalk below, the fountain in the park sprays a statue of a naiad, she in a seductive pigeon pose. I just did a TRX workout with Michael at the gym and didn't completely embarrass myself. My muscles are still shaking a little bit, but the challenge was refreshing and welcome.
Now for a shower, some practicing (which I haven't done since I left Heifetz last week; moving kind of got in the way), and then drinks with friends I haven't seen all summer.
Sometimes you can go home again. Sometimes that's exactly what you need to do.