Moving

Moving Day.

Mine was this week, in the midst of a blizzard. Highlights included a Magnolia banana pudding, friends speaking made-up languages, and a startling amount of rediscovered mousetraps.

At the end of the day, everything you own is packed into a tidy little pile. My stuff, this time, was moved into a 5×11 storage unit. It’s all about downsizing: from a Brooklyn apartment, to a storage unit, to one piece of checked luggage and a regulation size carry-on.

But it was only after I shoved that last box in the storage unit that I was able to realize the real significance of the move I’m making. As I rushed straight from storage to dinner with people who have been some of my dearest friends for the last eight years, it started to sink in. I’m moving. I’ve begun to move.

My mantra for the last few months has been, “Don’t run away. Run toward.” I know what I’m leaving. A city I love, friends who have become family. I’m not running away. But I don’t know exactly what I’m running toward yet. I know heading to Europe is the right decision. I know it’s the right direction. I simply have to move a little closer to see in more detail the destination to which I’m heading.

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