For 14 months straight I've lived a nomadic existence, laying my head down to sleep in over 50 different locations. Even at my parents' lake house in Michigan, I never really unpacked. Instead I stayed as a guest in the guest bedroom and lived out of suitcases, never really knowing how long my stay would be as I continued in my job search and bounced between Michigan, New York, and Los Angeles.
FINALLY, as of October 1, 2013, I have a place I can call my home, with no plans to leave, leave any time soon. On Tuesday I moved into a three bedroom apartment in Harlem with three other girls from my church. My room is itty bitty, and I'm sleeping on air mattress until I can find a job, but it is my room, my space, my home, and for that I am grateful. Maslow would be pleased that one of my most basic needs is finally being filled.
Granted, I returned home to a crime scene my second night in Harlem and it's not quite as glamorous as SoHo (where I stayed last month), but it's not too far from the great outdoors of Central Park and Columbia University, the place I hope to work. But yes, on Wednesday night a cop knocked on our apartment door to inquire if me or my roommates had witnessed the shooting. (Shhhh, don't tell my parents; I wouldn't want them to be concerned.) We hadn't witnessed anything except the aftermath of the incident - cops and detectives swarming the streets, trying to find answers to the murder mystery.