I sometimes think about what I am losing by being here, feeling my life move implacably away from the past. I know what I am gaining, what I have already won, and as the first real cold of winter settles on the streets, I ponder the depth of my satisfactions.
My posts are infrequent as ever, this one tapped off with the hive-like hum of busy laundromat machines. I cannot help thinking of my father's parents, the life they made for my father amongst these sounds,the sensation of my entire fortunate life being tied to laundromats. And so to be here is to be filled with reverence, to acknowledge that I am what the generations have made me. The sharp scent of uncapped detergent strikes me, and I miss my family.
But these are the days of many joys. The purity of feeling a dance floor under my shoes, convening by routine with other dancers who I see nearly every day, and the way I laugh and smile with them and my dear New York friends. I feel incredibly fulfilled, as sated as I was in the last happiest time I can recall, being a team leader at Google, and I cannot help feeling that somehow things for me are simple and right.
The morning light is clear, reflecting crisply on the mottled sidewalk and the even march of brick facades, throwing crisscrossed reflections off the eastern windows onto the apartment buildings that gaze west.
I feel that my life as a graduate student in Durham is very far away, that what remains now is the memory of dancing alone across the glossy expanse of the rec center floors, and the sensation of having been always surrounded by green, labyrinthine trees.
It is not, I remind myself, all perfect here. I struggle to find the mentorship I crave, and I have not yet found the right dance partner for me. My room is always a mess, and I sometimes struggle to sleep at night. But my New Years resolution was to be less self critical, to not be changeable by others' expectations and to focus once again on becoming the person I want to be.
My laundry stops spinning. Now to fold, to organize. I go forward.
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