Yesterday we walked three miles to eat homemade soft pretzels and creamy chocolate shakes with our favorites. It was the perfect walk—spring is rearing her beautiful, ugh INCREDIBLE, head and the sidewalks swarmed with New Yorkers in light jackets and sneakers. Our boys slept like little cozy sun bears and we got to just talk and talk and talk. We walked uphill, through our new neighborhood, past our old neighborhood, and then again through our very first neighborhood we lived in when we moved to New York. (The second time.) It was sort of a Benjamin Button Walk, you could say.
We are moving. After six years in New York City, we are leaving. It's completely weird to type that out. I've honestly thought about how I would write that blog post about how we're leaving New York for six years and this is not turning out to the be the way I thought I would write it. But it feels good. I think when you fall completely in love with a place, and have more memories than you could ever sift heartily through, it's too complicated to try to write one single post that could encompass everything you're feeling about leaving it. New York and I have always been a mess with each other—for me, it's not one thing. It's not one place. It's, I don't even know, like a minute-to-minute pulse that reminds me I live here. That I'm a part of it. That I'm part of something bigger than myself that pushes me and challenges me. It's also where we've spent the majority of our married life, both working in the city and then, when we had our boys; where we learned to be parents, together. Both our boys were born here; one in Manhattan, one in Brooklyn. New York is where I've grown up. It's where I came into my own and I killed that itch under my skin that told me I was being untrue to myself, my personality, to what I love, and who I know I can be. I shut those voices down that told me, This is how you do it because that's how it's always been done and did a lot of things that brought me joy and growth. I also failed a lot. Like, a lot a lot. More than anybody knows but I know and I am so proud that I even tried. The highs were so high and the lows were so low, just like they say about parenthood. And life. And Life.
Everywhere I go, I think to myself: This might be the last time I see ________. It can be anything. That swing. Our favorite ice cream place. Our friends. Oh, our friends. That one bench we'd always sit on on Sunday nights. Or the restaurant with the best ramen where Silas straps on his bib and slurps down an entire bowl of noodles like The King of Ramen. Or King Baby of Ramen? I could go on and on—you'll never meet a more sentimental person—I've kept every single everything you've ever thought of just.in.case it has a memory attached to it. But New York has also forced me to let go. Let go of things. Let go of control. Let go of money. Lots and lots of money. (Damn NYC apartments.) Just let people be.
Really, I could never write what I want to write about New York. It's not sleep-deprivation or kids or to-do lists or lack of ideas. It's almost like this time was sacred and I just need to let it sit before I sift and find the words. Have you ever felt that way? We feel a simultaneous peace and excitement about our move that is making this all okay. I imagine I'll wake up one morning in our new home in California and it will all hit me, but until then, I feel good. We love this place but it is time. It's so good to know when it's time.
California sunshine, here we come.