Happy anniversary, San Francisco–city by the bay, where the sky is BIG and the people are little (the opposite of New York City, where the individuals are massive and fill the sidewalk, and you have to actively remember that the little sky is somewhere off above your head). The clouds move SO FAST here, and everybody walks around like it’s normal.
Monday marked one month since moving to San Francisco. It does not feel like just yesterday. I look back on the summer of immobility–even more, I look back on graduation week in New York in May, nay–I flip back to the beginning of my datebook, where Hamlet rehearsals scrawl across a student’s life–and then I think about the girl who drove north through a red, smoggy Central Valley on September 19–and I can’t quite believe that was me, not so long ago. Six weeks ago, San Francisco was as arbitrary as Denver, or Chicago. A place where people live. A place I’ve been, but don’t think about very often.
But these four weeks have consumed my reality. Part of waiting these four weeks to write a post comes from not ever pausing to assess. When you feel like you’re running for your life, you don’t stop to check in with your feelings. You keep running and ignore the knowledge that you’re terrified, because that fear is paralyzing. A volatile act–to feel the feels.
So here I am, on the other side of a compact, dense, deeply-scouring race, taking a day to stop and assess. Safe enough in my established life to take a breather and take a look around at the view.
It’s a beautiful view.