This Saturday I happened to be early for ritual, and decided to sneak down to the creek below (CAYA holds many of it’s rituals in a yoga studio in Berkeley; it’s on the second floor of the building, but there is a small patch of grass next to a creek next to the first floor of the building) and ran around barefoot on the grass, listening to the water.

It felt so good, so connected, the cool grass against the bottom of my feet, the sound of water, the fresh air. I realize that more and more, this is the type of thing I’m missing.

Growing up, I always wanted to live in the city. I was in a very sprawling, suburban type area; although it was technically in a city, you couldn’t walk to anything. Even if something had been close enough, there were no sidewalks. I hated it. I hated that I never got to see my friends without planning it in advance, I hated that I couldn’t go anywhere without my parents, I couldn’t get away and be by myself if I wanted. It wasn’t even that I wanted to do anything I wasnt supposed to; I just wanted to be able to go and do something without having a  thirty minute conversation about it.

But now I’m here, in a city…and I’m beginning to think that maybe I wasn’t right about that, either. I love the convenience, yes, but I sometimes wonder if the things I like wouldn’t also exist in a small town. I like walking to things, I like being able to get place easily. But I miss the outdoors. I miss grass and walking around barefoot (which, okay, I’ve done an Oakland sidewalk but I was kind of terrified of what I’d walked on once I thought about it) and room to grow things, and have animals. I want to be able to smell fresh air and hear nature instead of smelling whatever is wafting from my neighbor’s house–be it illegal substances or whatever they’re cooking for dinner–and hearing sirens. I feel hemmed in and crowded and anxious.

Then I wonder–is it really the place that matters? Or is it just the pace of life? Crazy though it is, I think about what it would be like to have the kind of culture that moved slower. That allowed time for the things you love, and talking with friends, and just being, without feeling like it’s a waste of time. I’m at the point of practically scheduling my hobbies to get things done.  It’s crazy, and at the same time I don’t want to give anything up. Perhaps that’s selfish, but the very things I could afford to give up, the things that I don’t have to do, are the very things keeping me sane.

I don’t know; maybe this is where I’m supposed to be. Maybe it isn’t? But how do you really know? And how do you change it if you’re wrong?