Unfurled

It’s not much of a blog that’s updated once a year.  Happily, I believe I am now its only reader and therefore, have only myself to disappoint. On the other hand, I am in an excellent position to know my daily goings-on making me (the reader) less reliant on such sparse input of data.

However, it is true, as it is for all people who blog, I do wish to extend my list of readers to > 1, so again, for the 5th time, make a commitment to writing more regularly.  (At some point, I anticipate that the shame will force me to commit (My only concern is that I have a very high tolerance for shame)). Not that this will necessarily ensure more readers, but at least I’ll feel better thant I have not left even my imaginary ones down.

As I posted 5 months ago, I am in New York City and have been now for nearly 9 months. I will admit, the transition was not as ground-breaking as I first assumed it would be. I assume this is because I brought me along. I am me– in Boston, or in New York. And probably in Siberia too, except there  I might be cold.

So I started therapy. To help me see what it was that I’d brought along, besides my sheepskin rug and All-Clad pans.  I’d always prided myself on being unusually free of childhood woes and tribulations, convinced that I am who I am by virtue of my genetics with perhaps a small contribution from my environment.  I am beginning to learn that all of us as children received– besides the gumball machines, Cabbage Patch Kids and Laura Ashley dresses (I was a kid in the 70s & 80s!)–  a-little-something-extra-special from our home that might make us feel a little, shall we say, less than special.  I have my thing.  You have yours.

The problem is: once you’ve opened this grab-bag, you have only the option of getting over it. As quickly as possible.