Nature, Life, Home
I used to live in San Francisco. I loved it. I loved the jazz clubs and the energy of seeing so many people out enjoying the parks on sunny days. I loved how there were so many things to do and so many interesting people. Classes and workshops and museums—so much to engage the mind!
I moved away a few years ago. There were many reasons I moved, some having to do with not having an actual real money-making job and having to pay city-living bills, some having to do with missing the wildness of the outdoors, which I felt so separated from. I live about an hour from the city now and still visit often to see my friends or do some exciting city adventure.
I started to think I’d made a mistake moving away. I’ve struggled making friends and connections in this new smaller town. Not to mention the dating prospects (not great.)
I spent a week this month in Manhattan, spending my evenings in jazz bars and my days in museums. It was delightful and fun, but my mind kept drifting home, to the rolling green hills and mountains, to the seasonal waterfalls that were soon to dry up.
I’ve finally started feeling like I belong out there, in the wild. Sure, I don’t have many human friends, but maybe I don’t need as many as I thought. When I’m out hiking, when I’m out alone among the trees and the duff, the whispering grasses and peeping towhees, I don’t feel like I need anything at all. I feel connected, loved, understood. I feel like I’m enough.
I’ve never felt that way in a city.