first cityversary

On a rainy afternoon, one year ago today, we arrived in Brooklyn. We were an exhausted, ragged three-some: Blake, who had driven our moving truck from Muncie, Indiana, through Ohio, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and over a few bridges into the city; me, who, like Blake, had been awake for nearly two days straight, finishing up the packing and cleaning of our old apartment; and Garrett, seven weeks old, colicky, and constipated. The storm, which had started as we began loading up the truck, thus delaying our departure considerably and forcing us to pack up almost completely without our promised help, followed us all the way to New York and kept us company as we unloaded into our new apartment. As I stood, surrounded by boxes, in the old, echo-y rooms we'd soon be calling home, trying to comfort my fussy baby boy and near tears myself, I felt sure that the thunderous downpour was a bad omen, a sign that our move was nothing but a big mistake. In the lonely, unsettling days and weeks that followed, I felt it even more acutely: could I ever really belong in Brooklyn?

But then I'd remember that too many miracles came to pass to bring us to the place and position we now found ourselves. We were supposed to be here. For what reasons exactly, I didn't know yet, but that didn't matter. I had a city I needed to learn to love.

I found the laundromat, the grocery store, the library, the bank, the pediatrician. I learned how to get places on the subway and how to tote an infant around on foot. Slowly I adapted to the culture of Brooklyn. With time I became a recognized part of my community. And in the process a certain fondness for it developed somewhere in my heart.

The other night in my Book of Mormon reading, I came across the following verse from Alma:

Now when our hearts were depressed, and we were about to turn back, behold, the Lord comforted us, and said: Go [...] and bear with patience thine afflictions, and I will give unto you success.

Success we have indeed found. And blessings in abundance. More than once Blake and I have stopped to consider the fact that, had we been living in any other part of the country at this time of economy-crumbling, we'd be suffering greatly: the cost of living may be high here, but where else can you get away from the burden of monthly car and insurance payments, in addition to explosive gas prices? Where else can we stay so healthy just by going about our daily routines?

Which isn't to say that some days are just hard. I struggle with Blake's long work hours. I still wonder how well I fit in my ward. And life on foot in a big city is exhausting. But I've realized that my happiness is a choice: I can choose to wither in misery, or to bloom where I'm planted. I've decided to blossom, and this choice has led me to a kindred spirit, exhilarating outings, and a realization that my situation is in fact a pleasantly comfortable one.

This last year has been one of struggles, learning, and adapting. But it's also been one of happiness, growth, and incredible memory building. I like Brooklyn, and I'm starting to think that Brooklyn likes me.