With the exception of a few years here and there, I’ve spent most of my adult life in apartments, from the seediest to the most suburban. None of them ever felt like home to me. I know that there are people who think environment doesn’t matter — that peace is entirely an internal matter — but after 30 years of being an involuntary witness to other people’s lives and noise, I disagree. Living in an apartment is like having several radios turned on at the same time, all playing different stations, and having no way to turn them off or even lower the volume. No amount of personal Zen I ever felt could endure for long under the constant assault of footsteps above, the bass from a stereo below, the blare of television pounding against the walls, the arguments of couples, late night parties, colicky infants, and the screech of Big Wheels outside at seven o’clock in the morning. Not to mention the occasional gunshot, the flashing lights of police cars, and the smell of curry, cologne and soiled diapers wafting through hallways and windows. No, I never did get used to apartment living. I numbed myself to it when I could, promising that someday, one day, I’d have a peaceful little cottage to call my own.

And then this happened. A tiny little cottage found by remote chance.

When I first moved to Tucson, I rented the cheapest apartment I could find, reasoning that if I could write my last book in a truck, then I could write anywhere. The apartment itself wasn’t awful — it was just outdated and had the painted cement floors that are common in this area — but it felt cold and impersonal rather than homey, even as I gathered furniture and other things that are supposed to make a space cozy. The worst part was the noise. Between the thin walls, open windows, and courtyard gatherings of neighbors, it was constant. I found myself unable to focus and write at length. My work suffered, but I kept trying to talk myself into some state of acceptance, arguing that I’d eventually break through my writer’s block in favor of low rent. After seven months, though, I gave up. I had written half a book that wasn’t up to par. My story was more head than heart, and felt like a reflection of my living conditions . . . like something I was trying to convince myself to stay with even though it wasn’t making me happy.

I began scouting rental ads casually. The few places I initially found weren’t much better than what I had and none of them were private. On a particularly discouraging day, I met with a realtor named Judy. The two places she had advertised weren’t for me, but instead of wishing me well on my search, she asked exactly what it was I was looking for. Privacy, I told her. Some quiet, serene little place with a patio. Some place that might feel like home. Then, in what seemed like a too-good-to-be-true twist, Judy told me that one of her friends in California had a vacant cottage she was looking to rent and she just happened to have the keys.

From the moment we pulled up to the privacy gate of the long driveway, I knew this was the place for me. Not just the place, but THE place I had always wanted, even if it’s not by the ocean. Sitting on a large lot, fenced on all sides, with an additional fenced-in patio, it just doesn’t get more private in the city. There are blooming oleanders, fence-climbing vines, and trees, including an ancient looking mesquite that looks like it belongs in a fairy tale forest. The tiny inside, probably no bigger than 600 square feet, was comfortably furnished with everything a person might need, including a washer/dryer, two televisions, and an amazing array of kitchen goods.

I’ve only been here seven days, but I have never been as content as I am right now. I am in a state of domestic bliss that makes me smile every time I fire up the grill, chop vegetables, hand wash dishes, plant flowers, hose down the patio, or envision what I might do one day to make the backyard even more of a sanctuary. I know there are people who don’t understand how such simple things can induce so much ecstasy, but they probably didn’t spend thirty years in apartments dreaming of just this .  . . sitting outside under the shade of a tree, listening to nothing but birds and the sounds of one’s own heart and thoughts. It makes me want to eat healthier, take up yoga, have friends over in the evening, and write beautiful things.

I love this place. It is the perfect one-person paradise, even if it’s not anywhere near a beach. I think if I never had to leave — if I could grow old here — I’d be happy.

P.S. I broke a finger while trying to move a cement bench by myself. I don’t even care. Now that’s Zen!

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The sun is a ball of liquid fire. 10,000 degrees Fahrenheit on its surface, 27,000 degrees at its core. It is only from an average distance of 92,955,887.6 miles away that we welcome it as a benevolent, life-warming source.

This is how I’ve come to feel about the experience of loving her. At a distance of 543 days and 13,052 hours, all of love’s fires, the passionate ones, the hurt ones — the wishful, longing, frustrated, glorious, hot, horrible, surprising ones — have gone out. Even the smoke has cleared.

There are only stories and memories and, at least once a day, a feeling of gratitude. Love, in retrospect, just shouldn’t have been that hard, critical, or heartbreaking.  For every day we soared together perfectly, it seemed like there were at least ten days of damages and repairs.

Love isn’t anything at all like a car, but I can’t help recalling a pretty green convertible that I once owned for a short time. It was an amazing car to drive — 5 speed, fast, sleek and solid — but every other week it was in the shop needing repairs that I could barely afford. I invested in parts and labor anyway, in the hopes that eventually all that needed fixing would be fixed. Despite my efforts, the car never stopped bleeding and it wasn’t long before the joy of owning a convertible was trumped by the insecurity of never knowing when it would break down or where.

No, love isn’t at all like a car, but it is an investment. I put everything I had into loving her — heart-mind-body-spirit — and hoped for a return that would last a lifetime, but it lasted less than a year. Nine months of life-changing joy, giddiness, discomfort, worry, curiosity, fear, excitement and anticipation — which ended in pain and a long period of mourning.

I’m no longer sad, though. While I’m not given to mysticism and beliefs like “everything happens for a reason”, I’ve come to appreciate that even the most compatible lovers don’t always make the best partners. Ultimately, she and I wanted and needed different things in the long-term. We had different visions of the future. Within days of our breakup (and it possibly could have been before, but it doesn’t matter anymore), she found someone who fit her vision better than I did. I felt very hurt by that at first—meaning my ego found it hard to process that I was so easily replaceable—but I can say now that I’m genuinely happy for her. I’m also happy for myself.

Since leaving on my road trip in October of 2009, my life has been a series of growth-spurring evolutions that are almost always preceded by some challenge or setback. I’m not sure how to explain why this feels good and right to me, but it does. Logically, I could say that much of my life has been challenging and wish myself done with anything that feels like an uphill climb, but this is different. I don’t know why; it just is. Maybe it has to do with age, or having a level of encouragement and emotional support I’ve never had before — maybe it’s as simple as knowing I’m finally on a path of doing what I love for a living — probably it’s all of that and more. In any case, even the biggest challenges don’t make me feel as anxious or dread-filled as they once did. I’m even excited about some of them, like moving to a new cottage and finishing my second book.

I think, too, that taking on all of these challenges might not be possible if I weren’t alone. In a relationship, I have a need to pull my own weight as well as the desire to be an equal participant in the things my partner likes to do. Which is a problem when you’re a struggling writer dating anybody who wants to dine out, travel and, well, spend money.

So I feel like I’m at where I should be at right now. I see being single as an opportunity to write, grow, and to face the challenges that I hope, one day, will result in me becoming the kind of person, writer and even life partner that I want to be.

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A friend of mine was diagnosed seven weeks ago with esophageal cancer. It’s terminal and she is in a hospice with only days left to live. I will write about Liljana “Pat” Stewart in a future post, but here’s what I can tell you now. She loved her life and lived her beliefs. She retired five years ago to become a full-time writer and besides having a passion for poetry, stories and painting, Pat absolutely loved her home. After years of renting, she finally purchased a place that she envisioned would be the sanctuary she always wanted. She spent hundreds of hours planting amazing English-style gardens, decorating rooms and hanging her art just-so. I don’t put too much stock in astrology, but Pat was a consummate Libra. She loved comfort, food, art, holidays and entertaining. If Pat’s house had a motto like those above, it might have been “In this home, we do warmth, we do welcoming.”

Pat's Home

When I saw the painted wall picture on Facebook this morning, minutes after I spoke with Pat, it brought to mind the dozens of photos that she sent me over the years of blooming flowers and new artwork. It also brought up my own thoughts about security, comfort, and the kind of environment that I’d like to live in one day. My needs and wants have evolved over the years. When I was raising my daughter, there were just four house mottos: Respect, Consideration, Kindness & Love. Everything from keeping the house clean to kisses goodnight fell under one or more of these simple words.

My Dream House

Being single, it’s different. Meaning that while my intentions are still the same, they’re not spent in the day-to-day realm of a familial or intimate relationship. And as much as I like to be alone, sometimes for days, there’s also a part of me that longs for someone to create an agreeable, loving environment with . . . to help paint the walls with mutual hopes, beliefs and goals.

I’m not lonely, though, and I’m not even looking. One of the things Pat and I have in common, besides our passion for stories, is a certain kind of acceptance for the twists of luck and life. If this is what it is and how it is to be, then I will make peace with it. Like me, Pat spent most of her adult years single (and quite contentedly), but I’m sure that if she’d met the right person—someone who made her heart soar while keeping her grounded with love—she would have returned their loyalty ten-fold and been very happily married.

That Red Hedge by Pat Stewart

Henry Ellis once said, “All the art of life lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.” It took me many, many years just to start understanding that art, which can never truly be perfected. Sometimes, what seems to be a battle worth fighting proves futile, while at other times we suspect that we gave up on something too early. We can never really know. In the meantime, there’s only life . . . and that’s all there is until it isn’t anymore.

In this house today, I do reflection.
I do writing.
I do mourn, but I don’t regret.
I do great big imaginings.
I do nurturing of dogs & dreams.
I do laugh to myself and at myself.
I do cry when I have to.
I do wish.
I do pray.
I do live one close-up hope at a time.

What I don’t do, ever, is forget that life is a temporary state, meant to be lived as sweetly, fully, and passionately as we can make it . . . even when alone, even when it sometimes hurts, even when it’s unlucky, and even we’re so very far from any sort of perfect understanding that we constantly feel like we’re starting from scratch.

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There’s nothing I could say about Annie that hasn’t been said about other special dogs, but that’s true of parents talking about their children, too. Redundancy doesn’t stop us. Love is always new when it’s our own.

Annie has come so far since I adopted her from Pima Animal Care Center on 10/27/11. On that day, I tested the patience of shelter volunteers by taking about a dozen other dogs out of their kennels into the “getting to know you” pens. I was open to any size, any breed. All I wanted was a steady, easy-going, even-tempered companion. One of the last dogs I took out was a black and tan shepherd mix who was, in all ways, perfect. He was interested in me and in playing, and already knew several commands. Just as I was about to commit, the shelter volunteer said there was one other dog I should look at and led me to a kennel where two older puppies were frolicking around a curled up ball of red fur. The volunteer called out a name, “Monster”, and the red ball didn’t respond at all.

I learned that “Monster” had a brother who was recently put down for being ill. He was known as “Monster II”. The intake form said that the dogs, Chow-Retriever mixes, were kept outside for the whole two years of their lives and had no experience being inside of a house. The reason for surrender was foreclosure.

It seemed to me that “Monster” was ill. The kennel worker agreed and said she would probably be heading to sick bay if she didn’t show signs of improvement, but it could be that she was also despondent over the loss of her brother and a new environment.

I knew that the perfect black and tan shepherd mix would have no problem finding a home, probably one with children who could keep up with his playful side. But Annie? (Yes, I’d already renamed her.) I feared she’d be put to sleep like her brother or that prospective owners might hesitate to adopt a two year old that wasn’t house trained. Besides, she’d need a calm space to recuperate and I had that. My apartment was almost too calm for me—it needed the addition of another life—and I needed something to do other than stare at the walls or my computer screen.

The next day, Annie came home with me. She was very sick (parasites, respiratory infection, worms) and seemed to have lost the will to live. The vet bills were high and the medications were many for the first month, at least until we found an antibiotic that worked. Even then, she seemed somewhat hesitant to re-commit to life and to bonding with another person. She tolerated everything quite well, from my excessive attention to multiple vet visits, but it was a month before I saw her wag her tail.

She seemed to understand no commands when I attempted to train her. She wouldn’t sit for a treat or come when called. I tried both English and Spanish, but she would just stare at me as if I was asking her to perform some algebraic equation. That all changed the day I brought home some bologna from the store. She’d never been curious about groceries before, but kept sniffing the bag. On a hunch, I opened up the deli package, took a slice out, and asked her to sit. Immediately, she complied. Shake? Yes. Lay down? Yes. Sit up? Yes. Suddenly, my Annie was a genius!

We’ve both come so far since October. Annie is now back in love with life and I’m totally in love with her. She’s never had an accident in the house, knows all of her commands, and will walk by my side without a leash. She doesn’t play fetch and seems to have almost no use for toys, but loves interacting with other dogs and their keepers at the dog park. Nearly everywhere I go, she goes. She loves walks, car rides, visiting friends, hanging out at Starbucks, and trekking through the foothills. When I’m working at home, she lies in her bed, napping or chewing on a bone, patiently waiting for me to finish. The dog who once feared jumping up on my bed now looks forward to the sound of a light clicking off. That’s her signal to come on up and get her belly rubbed.

When I had to go to Chicago to work on The Rosie Show, Annie stayed with friends in Lake Tahoe. She enjoyed her stay, and Janice and Van took excellent care of her, but I didn’t think it was possible to miss a creature as much as I missed her. Life just isn’t the same without:

- Unconditional love. (Some people think dogs don’t love. I think those people don’t pay attention.)
- Someone who’s always happy to be with you, regardless of where or when.
- Someone who doesn’t care where you’ve been, how much money you make, or how impressive your credentials are, but only wants you to love them back, care for them, and tap into your silly, playful heart on occasion.
- Someone who warns you when there’s a stranger outside.
- Someone whose loyalty is unquestionable and boundless.
- Someone who never holds a grudge.
- Someone who’s always there for you, in good times and bad.
- Someone who always laughs at your jokes.

Well, you can’t have everything. But having a dog makes me feel like I have more than many people do.

UPDATE! This is Rigby. Annie and I met him at the dog park today. He’s a Tucson Cold Wet Noses rescue who was adopted for two days and then sent back. He was being boarded at Broadway Animal Hospital pending another foster home. He lost his sister to euthanasia; Annie lost her brother. I just picked him up fifteen minutes ago. So far, although Annie’s looking a little confused, they are getting along very well!

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I went fishing once. I liked sitting quietly on a boat in the middle of a serene lake. I liked the near-silence and the feel of the sun on my skin. I liked just sitting there, staring into the sky or water. What I didn’t like was everything else. The bait, the waiting, the wide-open eyes of the fish being reeled in. Even halfway out of the water, they looked like frightened ghosts. I was sure that even those who escaped suffocation were haunted by the experience of being pierced by a hook. After the first death, I removed my pole from the water and asked my companion to throw her next catch back. One fish was surely enough for dinner, especially since I wouldn’t be eating.

I didn’t feel the same way when I went abalone diving. There were no eyes to contend with, only hard beautiful shells to collect and bloodless white meat to pound into tenderness before it was sliced, battered and fried. In the salty ocean air, with wood smoke from a camp fire burning my eyes, I ate my fill along with my children and friends. Afterward, I watched my green-eyed daughter and brown-eyed son wander off in search of the perfect sticks to roast marshmallows.

On that day, just like nearly every day before and since, I wondered who I was. Most often, the thought was fleeting. I’d see someone who looked like me and wonder if we shared roots. Sometimes, I’d ask strangers what nationality they were and then, if they were game for conversation, cagily get them to guess at my own. I’d flip through the pages of a magazine looking for someone who shared my features. On occasion, the thoughts lingered. Who was I to have this son who looked just like me and a daughter who looked so opposite? My children were a mirror that reflected a past haunted by one unanswered question: who am I really?

My mother, MJ, would never tell me and, in fact, seemed to delight in holding the power of her secret. I was a ghost fish she reeled in and decided to keep as a resented pet of some sort. I cannot number the times I wish she’d have thrown me back or given me away. Instead, she dined on her secret while I squirmed and flailed about looking for some sense of identity, of belonging, of love.

It is hard for me to speak with adopted children who resent having been adopted, even when they were raised with love and care. Many of them seem to imagine that had their mothers kept them, their lives would be complete. They believe I am lucky because at least I knew my birth mother. Never mind that she was cold and unwelcoming, or that I spent every day of my childhood wondering what I did to deserve her wrath — at least I knew what she looked like and who she was. I do not feel lucky for having that knowledge. I wish that MJ had the strength and the integrity to understand her limitations. I wish that she’d been able to set aside her great pride to say, “I made a mistake by having this affair and neither my husband or I want this child, so I will let her go to someone who wants a child and who won’t punish her for my sins.”  MJ didn’t have that kind of strength, though. Her pride, not her desire, made her keep me. It would have been too humiliating to explain to the mistake of her third pregnancy to her older daughters, her family, or her neighbors. It was easier to pass me off as her husband’s child — to tell strangers who inquired about my coloring that there were dark-eyed Gypsies on her side of the family.

On Facebook, a young Korean adoptee rails against the picket fences and dance lessons of her white-parent youth. She bemoans being “bought” as a baby in an international adoption and shipped to an American suburb, to diligent parents who gave her warmth, security and love without a biological imperative. This is an outrage to her. She has read The Primal Wound and believes that being given up by her birth mother has forever damaged her. She believes that, no matter who her birth mother was, or how her life might have turned out — no matter how poor, dire, or even resented she might have been — she would have been happier, more whole, more like herself  had her birth mother kept her. One half of me understands. She is a ghost fish, too. Wide-eyed, she was pulled up from her natural element and taken to another pool, by people who do not look like her and who probably could not answer her most pressing questions, even if they wanted to.

The other half of me is jealous. Envious to the point of frustration, really. I want to tell her that it is better to be rejected early, with finality, rather than rejected day by day, every day, piece by piece, until the fact of your mother did not want you, cannot love you, will never love you  is not only the seed of infancy, but all the branches of childhood and beyond. There is no warmth in that cold water of resentment. No guidance and no solace. No hands, not even unfamiliar ones, to hold onto. No dance lessons, no one to cheer you on, or pick you up when you fall. There is only you, with a gaping hole in your heart and a torn-up psyche. You become your own parent, eventually. You learn to nurture and encourage yourself, but it’s not the same. Somewhere, always, you’re waiting for that mother-voice to say, Good job. I’m proud of you. You are a worthy human being. The voice does not come, so you pretend it; you create it for yourself, maybe through other women, other relationships.

(There comes a time when a lover’s hands are more than precious . . . when they become extensions of everything you ever wanted and never had. Sacred, those hands. Exalted, that shelter of arms that cradle you so many years past the age of a cradle. Your lover will be bemused by your fascination with her hands. By how humble and reverent you feel, laying skin to skin, your plain, dark hand on the altar of her angelic white hip. She will never know how much it means to you that she lets you lay there — that she has invited you to lay there — that, for even a short while, she gives herself freely to you and finds you worthy of this privilege . She will not understand why the tears rise so easily, or exactly why you love her so much, or how very deeply that love goes. She will not understand many things and you will only be able to explain so much without sounding like a madwoman or scaring her off. You are like a church with open doors, where I might wander in and hear a sermon of love and forgiveness. Here, our communion wine on the nightstand. Here, our window, closed to the unholy city. Here, we will gather love and grace instead of coins, so that even a pauper might feel rich.  You don’t say that, though, you never say that. You smile with her. You tell her yes, I know it’s silly how much I love holding your hand in the car or stroking your hair until you fall asleep. I know I sound like an idiot when I try to tell you why having my hand on your hip feels sacred to me or, worse, when I imagine out loud a pretend future of morning walks and Sunday dinners. I just love you, that’s all, go with it. 

None of it matters in the end. You get thrown back or throw yourself back for any number of ungodly reasons, not the least of which are those slight religious differences that determine levels of pride, acceptance, shame, compromise, risk, mutuality and love).

The religion of the ghost fish holds that Heaven is a person who loves and wants you, and a place you feel accepted. The opposite of heaven is the hell of rejection.

I did not want my son to be a ghost fish. My envy of adoptees is why I wanted to surrender him for adoption. I wanted him to have all that I could not give him and all that I suspected I would never be able to provide. I was beyond poor and knew that it would not be temporary. I knew how hard I’d have to work and how little time I would have. I knew he would suffer for my sins through endless hours of daycare, financial crises, and severe shortages. I did not want him to suffer. My most profound regret in life is that I allowed my mother and her husband to intimidate me into keeping Mac and then later sharing custody. My son, like me, does not feel grateful to have at least known his mother. I do not blame him for this at all. I gave him so little to be grateful for. I raised him in chaos, in poverty. He ping-ponged back and forth. I did not have the resources to fulfill his needs. My love, although strong, fell abysmally short. He told me once that he forgave me and maybe he meant it at the time, but it took me 27 years to unwrap the heavy chains of guilt from around my heart and forgive myself.

My son had a father who never saw him, never paid child support and never cared, but I’ve found in relaying the story of my son’s life to strangers that there’s no anger or judgment against the man who simply left. No one, not even once, has ever expressed any surprise or outrage that a father could do such a thing. When it comes to children, it is the mothers who are scorned for their imperfect choices — for not being able to pick up the pieces, or right all the wrongs — for their poverty, chronic instability and desperate decisions. But you were his mother. You should have done better. You should have tried harder. You shouldn’t have let him live with your parents. How could you?  I would never give one of my children up, no matter how bad things got.

Many woman I know, and certainly the women in my son’s life, think they could have given more, worked harder, and been wiser under the same circumstances. None of us will ever know if they are right, and this many years later, it no longer matters. The past will not change with judgment and the future will not be bettered by recrimination and guilt. I do not tell stories like this for personal catharsis, but in the hopes that other young women might learn from my mistakes — to let them know what they might find if they follow either my course or my mother’s. Becoming a parent before you’re fully grown up, before you’re stable and ready, can be painful and full of lifelong consequences. Keeping a child you do not want or cannot care for is a guarantee of damage.

I am a ghost fish daughter and the mother of ghost fish son. I would wish it to be different, but it’s not. My son and I move in different elements, but I am convinced there is a place of love and acceptance for both of us, still, in this life.

It was my 50th birthday the other day. As a present to myself, I ordered a DNA genealogy test. It will not tell me who my father was, or why my mother was so determined to keep him a secret. It will not erase the past or substantially change my future. It might tell me where my brown eyes come from, though. I might be able to stop saying “I don’t know” when people ask what my nationality is, and maybe I’ll even stop wondering myself. It will take a laboratory 6-8 weeks to pry my mother’s secret from my blood.

It is not everything, but at the same time it is so much. This is the half of me that understands the ache of adoptees. This is the half of me that can’t stand fishing, but that still needs to fish.

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For years, I clung to the side of life’s pool. I swam only when it was absolutely necessary, knowing that swimming didn’t come naturally to me. I feared drowning almost as much as I came to loathe the feeling of holding onto the edge. I didn’t trust that there would be anyone who would jump in after me if I sunk. I didn’t trust myself, either. Each trip across the pool was fueled more by fear than by confidence.

It feels strange to consider those years now. I began to loosen my grip on the edge in 2009 and today even high-diving doesn’t scare me. I have found my element, my purpose, and I no longer doubt or dishonor my calling. I have exceptional friends who trust me and that I trust with everything I am. I’ve let go of old resentments and implausible hopes. I’ve forgiven myself not only for all the times I tried and failed, but more importantly for the times I was too afraid to try.

I found my life’s purpose and with it, a sense of calm.

What I haven’t found yet is a sense of place. Of “home”.

I’m living a good life in Tucson. My rent is cheap, I’ve got a decent car, there’s a Starbucks and a dog park right around the corner. I’ve even started dating again — casually, because I need that kind of lightness right now — and I’ve made many friends.

Outside of a harsh political climate, there’s nothing that Tucson lacks for someone like me. The sun shines warmly about nine months of the year. There’s an abundance of choice in restaurants, entertainment and recreational activities. Not once have I ever wanted something specific — like an Irish dinner or a particular black shirt — and not been able to find them. The people are friendly and the population is at least somewhat diverse.

I live one block away from a monastery, Benedictine Sisters of Perpetual Adoration, and none of the sisters seem to mind that on occasion my dog Annie and I go sit in their meditative garden, where Annie keeps a watch out for rabbits and I will myself into a feeling of balance.

Every day, sometimes twice a day, Annie and I go to Reid Park, where we cavort with other dogs and their owners or take solitary walks around the ponds, gardens and waterfall.

I live within walking distance of the Loft Cinema, where for $13 I can watch the kind of offbeat movies I like while enjoying a glass of wine.

And yet . . . Tucson doesn’t feel like home. It feels like an in-between place — a place I accidentally landed on the way to something/somewhere else.

I am not sure what home is supposed to feel like because I haven’t found it yet, but I’ve always been convinced that part of the package is a bright, shining sun and an ocean nearby. A dog-friendly, gay-welcoming, diverse neighborhood of individualists. Someplace where there’s room for seclusion as well as community.

After traveling across the country, I ruled out Florida (snakes, gators, politics) and California (traffic, attitude, smog) . Which, to my mind, leaves Hawaii the most logical choice.

It’s quite the swim from desert to island, I know, and it might take some time to get there, but I’m determined that I will. It might be three years from now or it may happen in a few months. I also might get there and find that island life isn’t what I’d hoped it would be, but the wonderful thing about being free is that I can always move forward — to any number of cities, to any new adventure that I can make possible.

There’s no edge that I feel compelled to cling to anymore and no possibility for happiness that I don’t want to explore.

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