The past year and a half have been steadily leading me to feel like I'm leaving myself behind. I can't say I've been living to work, but I have absolutely been surviving to work, and the feeling of burnout has been apparent even through much of this year. When I turned 30 earlier this year, I promised myself that I would change that.

One of the promises I made myself was that I would start to travel more. I wanted to get a passport, and to break the habit of "being spontaneous" that has been a hallmark of my personality for much of my life, thanks in large part to being a student and/or employed by a university or school. I have, to this point, been terrible about finding time to take a break.

Over the summer, I finally put my nose to the grind and made some changes. I submitted for my passport. I requested time off in the fall for a real vacation. I picked a destination, someplace I'd never before been.

And then I met New York City.

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Short of a family trip there when I was somewhere around 18 months old, I've never before been to New York. I had heard stories, and seen movies. And I decided it seemed as good a place as any to start exploring the world more.

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There's something liberating about New York City. I always love cities where I can travel and then get around nearly anywhere without having to drive on my own. But more than that, I fell in love with the sheer sense of life surrounding me. I found my mind wandering and thinking of a world of new and interesting possibility.

I loved this city that seemed like it would lose itself without its wealth of diversity. I loved how much culture, life, and food could be found just a few steps out the door. I love that this city, a stranger to me, wrapped me in its embrace and made feel more at peace than I have all year.

Thank you, New York. We'll meet again soon.

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I've been thinking a lot lately about how much I've allowed myself to fall behind. To think so much about things that I don't leave any time to actually do anything I've been thinking about.

I have a knack for picturing something a certain way and then steadily molding that image in my head into something great. Trouble is, I jump so far ahead in my mind that by the time it occurs to me to give it a try, I've worked things so far ahead that the thought of actually taking all the necessary steps to get there is too daunting. It overwhelms quickly, the thought of newness and adventure dissipates, and the end result is that nothing ends up happening.

The not doing leads to a fear of doing, and before I know it, I've fallen into a spiral of discontent. I'm tired of having the best of intentions. I crave action, steps in a forward direction, any semblance of progress.

I want to take the frustration, the confusion, the questioning, and do something useful with it.

New years have not historically been something that leave me too excited, but 2013 was less than friendly to me on a number of levels. Hence, where normally I welcome the new year as a relatively symbolic marker of time, this year it's meant a good deal more than that to me. In addition to 2014 offering a much-desired "clean slate" (or, more accurately, an excuse for a fresh new perspective), I'll also be turning 30 in a mere week's time.

The combination of these two milestones, a new year and a significant birthday, has left me thinking a lot about what I really want out of life. While 2013 taught me a great deal about conflict, and how to handle it, it also made it apparent to me how much I can stew on things. I realized, far too late after the fact, that my desire for harmony can come at a considerable personal cost. I forgot what it was like to look forward to going to work, and I let the things that bother me overshadow the things that brought me joy. Since this new year, I have been focusing on reclaiming that joy. We're a mere five days into the new year, but I'm feeling optimistic.

I've not been one for resolutions in the past, and while this year is no exception, I did decide that my habit of always taking things a day at a time has lead me to not take chances when I can. I'm speaking specifically about traveling right now. For the last two weeks, I've been thinking about how I want to ring in my 30th year on this planet, and after considerable thought, I've decided I want it to be the first year I really start traveling and exploring the world around me. I have my sights set on New York, where I hope to go meet some of the Instagrammers who have lately been inspiring me. My partner also wants to take me for my first-ever show on Broadway. I'm very excited about all this possibility, and cannot wait to go see the world. Naturally, I want to photograph everything along the way.

This brings me, incidentally, to the photo above. We escaped to Flagstaff for a weekend in October, and ventured the extra way to one of those days in Sedona, where I promptly fell in love with the red rocks. I have always loved Native culture and history, and the sense of history in Sedona is palpable. Those rocks have seen a lot of history, and when you look at them long enough, you can almost feel the sense of time as it both stands still and reels onward.

Despite having been born and raised in Albuquerque, I never seem to tire of the annual Balloon Fiesta. In the four years I spent away in Los Angeles for school, it was something I always missed. The Fiesta is my own personal marker for the start of fall. The colors start to change, the days get shorter, the air crisper. And no matter how many times I see it, I can't help but turn my eyes skyward when there are balloons in the air.

Under pretty much any circumstance, I am not a morning person. But when the Balloon Fiesta is going on, I can barely fall asleep at night in excitement for the next morning, and then happily get up at 4:30 so I can hit the field before sunrise.

For two years running now, I've biked to the field and taken my camera along for the ride. Last year, I found myself wishing I knew how to modify settings so I could make sure I could get a proper exposure. This year, the technicalities were much less an issue and I was able to really focus on capturing the moments.

I'm not generally in the habit of naming my photos, but this one spoke to me. I watched its steady journey from inflation to takeoff. I always find that hot air balloons seem to have a life all their own. They eagerly look to the skies and wait for the launch directors (who are affectionately referred to as Zebras) to set them free.

I had a dream last night. It was probably on the mundane side, by which I mean it wasn’t terribly eventful, but it stuck with me and I’ve been thinking about it on and off all day.

About two weeks ago I went to see one of my favorite singers, Jewish reggae rapper legend Matisyahu. I saw him a few years ago when I was still living in Los Angeles. The show I saw took place a few weeks ahead of his Live at Stubbs Vol. II performance, and stands out in my mind as one of the best concerts I’ve ever had the privilege of attending. Matisyahu was in the height of his then-phase as a Chasidic Jew, and seeing the energy he brought to the stage and the passion he felt for his music and his faith was inspiring.

The more recent show was decidedly less full of life. Gone are remnants of Chasidism, and in its place is a new person, clearly struggling to figure out the way he feels about this life. In many ways, I can relate. Chasidic Judaism has never appealed to me, in part because I don’t do well with extremes, and in part because most people of Chasidic and even Orthodox background balk at the very mention of a gay Jew. The Matisyahu I originally came to know and admire was a person of extremes: an addict who found his way to sticter religion as a way to overcome addiction. I saw him singing songs two weeks ago not because he wanted to, but because he knew he was expected to. The powerful connection he shared with his music seems to have gone. My first instinct is to feel sadness, but with some thought I realized that he, like all of us, is just a regular guy trying to figure out this thing called life. So much of life happens in between the lines, and I think if I stick around long enough, I’ll get to see one of my favorite artists sing about this very idea.

I mention all of this because Matisyahu showed up in my dream last night. He didn’t sing, but we got to hang out for most of the dream, and we talked about life. I talked about how I love tools, and I love fidgets. I have a pretty big habit of thinking grand thoughts, and even being able to find or create the tools to make them happen. But rarely does it seem that I’m able to consistently use those tools. I’m my own worst enemy, succumbing to time, tiredness, and overthinking things. I want to become good at something, and have the means at my disposal to do so (mostly, that means is time), but get tired and discouraged along the way. The more I learn, the more I realize I still have to learn, and I’ve found myself succumbing to just how daunting an idea that really is.

In my dream, Matisyahu suggested that maybe I should worry less about whether what I do is good or bad. He made me realize that I’ve had the most fun doing something when I’m the least polished, because I’m not overthinking it, but just enjoying the moment and enjoying whatever it was I was doing. The tapping of the keys as I type, the sound of the shutter as I take a photo. Those are moments in time I relish, and I should make it a point to spend more time doing these things which bring me calm, exhiliration, and joy.

The dream was a timely one. I worked with a patient yesterday who made it very clear that she was scared about her situation, and seeing such raw fear left me feeling pensive for the remainder of the day and on into the night. Between the feeling that left with me and the message of my dream, I felt a gentle reminder to make sure that amid all the stress, I live a little. To use the tools I have to express myself. To enjoy my tools while using them instead of dreaming about the next tools I want to try out. To use the energy I have to get the ideas and thoughts out of my head and into a form where I can play with them, see them in new ways, and free up some space for new ones to take root.

My good friend Ashley wrote a collection of essays cleverly titled If You Can Trust An Impostor. Ashley has an uncanny ability to make me questions everything I ever think I know. I recently took a trip to Phoenix to meet up with her and see one of our favorite podcasts perform live.

The first night we met up, we ended up chatting into the late hours of the night. Among the many topics we discussed, we talked about some things that had been troubling me about my professional life. Things had weighed on me for some time, and though I have gotten better in recent years at talking about things, I continue to have a tendency to hold close the things that both me most, afraid what it might mean if others were to see it.

After listening to my story, Ashley looked at me thoughtfully and said “Look at this way. It’s much harder to be this other person than it is to be you.” Her implication? Sure, I was being bullied, but the person with real fear was the one doing the bullying. Having such a perspective made the return to work more manageable, and I was able to find a peace and confidence in myself I had thought I’d lost.

I’ve spent a good portion of the year so far lost in thought. Every week or so, I make new resolutions in my head. I resolve to be more decisive, to be more action-oriented. To get out of my own head and give life to some of my dreams. I’ve lived more dreams in my head, which then fizzled out, than I would care to admit.

The silver lining has been the realization that actually doing things feels much better than thinking about doing things. Rather than thinking about how nice it might be to learn something, or to brush up on things I’ve long forgotten, I’ve found myself actually looking things up and writing about them. Writing about things has in turned helped me better retain what I’m trying to learn. I always knew putting things into my own words did that, but in my haze of telling myself I was too tired or didn’t have time, that fact had escaped me. I sure am glad it found me again, though, because it makes things seem an awful lot brighter.

Over the weekend, I saw down and read If You Can Trust An Impostor from start to finish (I had intended to savor it, and maybe read an essay a day for a week, but it was too good to put down). From the moment I started, I found myself marveling at Ashley’s gift with ideas. She articulated beautifully what I have found myself thinking for a long time: that I might actually be an imposter, and I didn’t even realize it. I often have this thought that people will someday wise up to me, and it’s never until somebody asks me a question I acutally know the answer to (and not just a rote answer, but rather an answer rooted in experience and considerable thought on the subject) that I realize that I’m less fake than I thought.

To read something and make the reader feel uncomfortable is one thing, but Ashley has the ability to go further. She makes you rethink your perspective, and makes you feel human. We all get lost sometimes, but the only way to find our way again is to just be ourselves and let ourselves be less than perfect. The happiest moments in my life have been rife with imperfection. Recognizing imperfection has recently helped me grown both intellectually and emotionally.

I keep thinking about being a recovering perfectionist. Much of my year this year has been spent thinking about this, and trying to devise the perfect way to get started with this recovery. While meanwhile, no recovery was happening. An hour spent reading essays (and rereading them, too) left me hungry for action. I didn’t make any grand proclamation, but instead found myself sitting quietly at my desk and starting checking items off my to-do list. Small actions, done a few at a time, have already begun to add up. I like where this is going.

It's Saturday night and I'm currently sitting at my computer looking up cheese graters on the internet. It might be poetic if I had a glass of wine in hand, but I doubt it would add much to my current train of thought. I was thinking about how I frequently have little to limit the workings of my brain, and the interent does even less to help me out in this regard. This could be why I went from thinking about photography to thinking about cheese, and how best to grate it. Last year at the state fair I impulse-bought what turned out to be a useless kitchen gadget. I love gadgets, and I love food, so naturally I love kitchen gadgets. I would love said impulse buy, however a fatal design flaw makes it very difficult to clean, and therefore a much less attractive thing to use.

My prior train of thought was related to my other gadget love: cameras. For some time now, I have enjoyed photography as a hobby. I've taken to reading books about it, trying to learn all I can. In the process, I've found myself doing less of the thing that sparked my interest in the first place: taking photos. I often browse flickr and enjoy getting lost in photos from around the world. I envy the ease others seem to have behind a lens, and forget that learning takes time for all of us.

I want to spend more time doing things that captivate me. I want to spend more time behind a lens and less time wondering about post-processing. I want to take photos that make me feel things, that remind of a single, isolated moment in time.

When I'm cooking, I want simple, effective tools with minimal complications but remarkable ease of use. I want an easy way to grate cheese, because I like the taste of freshly grated cheese.

But really, the takeaway I've been missing up until now could be summed up in a simple phrase: "Less thinking, more doing". I really need to get on that.

It's 2013! And what better way kick off the year than by clicking a little red 'x' to close a window on a long-time draft post--of relative emo quality--you've been keeping in MarsEdit, and having said 'window-closing' action send the post to your website instead of simply exiting? Answer: there is no better way.

So here we are.

It's 2013! I'd say things are off to a pretty good start so far. I have continued to write every day. I still have yet to set up that eye appointment. I had two four-day weekends in a row and barely knew what to do with myself. The free time did wonders for me; it's the most well-rested I've been in months.

There's a million things I want to do right now, and like a puppy I want to do them all right now. The downside is that it's hard to focus in such a state, so I'm trying my best to keep it all to a minimum and focus on one thing at a time, one day at a time. Grown-up stuff often seems to get in the way, but I'm working hard to find ways to reduce the time investment for such things. It's happening, just not as quickly as I would like. Unfortunately, patience for my own goals and projects is not something I seem to maintain.

My current project revolves around organization of pretty much everything in my life. Paperwork. Files. Bills. Photos. I yearn for simplicity. And yet, this yearning has complicated things so much more for the time being. Hopefully with a little perseverance, that part will only be temporary.

I've had the same prescription glasses for a little over two years now. A couple months ago, I noticed that the right ear piece was loose, and it wasn't long before it popped off completely. After two or three weeks, I finally stopped by a glasses place. They took one look at my glasses and informed me they didn't have the right parts and then referred me to a place called the "Eyeglass Hospital". They promised me that if they couldn't be fixed there, they couldn't be fixed anywhere.

Another week passed before I dragged myself there, and after about 20 minutes the gentleman told me that my options were simple: he couldn't fix them, so I could go to a jeweler who could take care of it. Barring that, he suggested I could try calling the place I purchased them. I opted for the latter, and they said I could mail them back and they could send them to the manufacturer to fix them. One of the prices you pay for designer sunglasses, it turns out, is proprietary parts.

Being pretty thoughtful about this whole thing, I decided it might be convenient to get a fresh prescription done before I send them in. That way I could have new lenses to go along with my freshly repaired frames. And being a pretty thoughtful procrastinator, I've let about two months pass since declaring that this would be my plan.

I can't think of any particular reason why I've let this amount of time pass. I've done the requisite Google searching and I've asked plenty of people if they recommend anyone. I have everything set to go, but for some crazy reason I haven't made any phone calls or even attempted to schedule an appointment. I realized today that it had nothing to do with wanting to find the right eye doctor, and everything to do with wanting to get the right prescription. Somewhere along the way, I've developed an irrational fear that I won't get the prescription that's just right for me right now. What's more irrational is that in lieu of even trying, I've just been using my broken glasses with their two-year-old prescription that doesn't do much for my changing eyes.

Maybe one of these days I'll finally get on that. One of these days.

In light of the recent news out of Newtown, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be alive. My department had a holiday party last Saturday, and I brought my camera along for the occasion. I uploaded the photos to my computer today, and looking at them made me realize something: I love the people I work with, and I love that an excuse for a group dinner was filled with so much life. Even in those moments, I didn't realize how much fun everyone was having. It took me removing myself for a bit and looking at life through the lens of a camera to really make it clear to me.

Plates, wine glasses, strings of lights, silverware. All served as the backdrop for a scene now just a memory. It was my first time wielding my camera in front of a group of people, and my first time using it to really capture moments in time. The graininess of the shots bother me less than I imagined they would; I like the way it reminds me of what it felt like to be there. I like how the colors of clothes are changed by the soft lighting. I like seeing pictures of people laughing, or thinking, or clearly lost in thought or in conversation. I like these things more than simple smiles into the camera, because nothing was paused for the sake of a snapshot.

I see these moments and I cherish them. I think of the children whose lives were taken from them, and it takes my breath away. My heart goes out to all those touched by this tragedy.

I started writing on the internet in 2005. I had a lot on my mind, things I needed to say. I could have said them in a journal, but instead I posted my words for all the world to see. In retrospect, perhaps the reason I chose to do so was that I needed someone, anyone, to read what I had to say.

The words crawled out slowly, tepid at first but with increasing rapidity as they were read by more and more eyes. Those eyes became people, who in turn became friends. Those friends blossomed into friendships, and before long I was telling stories, regaling the web with things I saw that made me laugh or smile. The more stories were told, the more stories were sought out just so I would have new ones to tell. A voice was then lost in a void. A voice that thought about things, felt things, was drowned out by a voice that simply wanted to see things. Seeing was believing. But seeing is only one part of believing, and without thoughts or feelings, seeing is something else completely: boring.

It's a common enough theme when one writes on the internet. I've seen enough people come and go, and have observed the pattern in both my own writing and that of others. Somewhere along the way, I lost touch with my passion for writing. I got consumed with only one part of it, and some of its magic slipped away as a result.

I spend a good deal of my work day writing. The writing I do is cold, repetitive, clinical. In an effort to find my voice again, I've taken to journaling. I have a paper journal, which I use sparingly at this point, though mostly because I can't write with my hand fast enough to keep up with my brain. So I've been using some technology to help me out in that regard. I have written every single day since October 15th. I write about what I did each day, or things I felt, or dreams I had, or new ideas that occur to me.

I never keep track, but I would hazard a guess that I spend a minimum of 30 minutes to an hour per day writing. I write whatever comes to mind, in whatever sequence my brain produces it, and I never edit it. The beauty of writing like this is that it has gotten the words back out from my head and onto the screen (virtual paper, I suppose). I turn off most distractions: no TV, no music, no phone calls. I simply sit down and write.

This has bled over into other aspects of my life as well. Instead of trying to fill my every waking hour with some form of entertainment, I've given myself space and have just let my mind wander. Instead of staring at my phone while on the shuttle into work, I look out the window and watch the world go by. Instead of having music playing around me at all hours, I have embraced the silence. Instead of humming along, my thoughts are free to take me where they may.

I like this path I seem to have found. I see just how much I missed writing, and how happy I am to be doing so again. I realize how long I went without embracing my wandering mind, and how I missed it so. I feel more human, more alive, and more inspired than ever.

About a year and a half ago, I started on a journey of getting healthier. In that process, I've lost 50 pounds (and counting). I owe my success to three things: quitting sweets, quitting sodas, and Zumba. Last year at this time of year, I took a day off work to train to become a Zumba instructor. Zumba changed my life in a way I never expected. It helped me get fit, it helped me lose weight, and it helped me relieve stress. But best of all, it made me active, and enjoy being active, when I needed it most. One year later, I'm finally on the cusp of taking on my first classes. I spent the last year slowly eking my way into teaching. I'm pleased with the time I took to reach this point. Instead of jumping in, I first got the hang of doing one song, then slowly added one or two at a time until, after about eight months, I taught a full hour-long class. The more I teach, the more exhilarating I find it.

Tonight I stopped by Guitar Center, a store I don't particularly like because of the loudness and the less-than-friendly attitude of much of the staff. I have long loved music, and played both guitar and violin in what feels like a very different life. I used to imagine myself doing music for a living (okay, okay, high school me wanted to be a rock star), and when I lived in LA I was introduced to electronica music by certain awesome friends. I played with a few digital audio workstations, but didn't really take to it.

I realized a while back that I am not that different from a puppy; I find myself interested in all sorts of things, and want to do everything I find interesting and do it all at the same time. In that spirit, I realized that, with that approach, I was falling into the trap of the "swiss army knife" of endeavors. I'm not sure that's a real concept, but I'm making it one for the sake of this post. Basically, I was on track to become sort of good at many things. But what I wanted, and still want, is to be really good at these things.

With that in mind, I set aside my curiosity for music and focused on the things that were actually taking up my time. One of those things was photography. The other of those things was Zumba.

When I walked into the store today, I realized that I made the right choice. Instead of gazing longingly and thinking about wanting to know things I didn't know, I paid no mind to the music and focused on looking for speakers for my upcoming Zumba class. I realized that instead of wanting to know something about photography, I've actually gotten out there, sought out resources, and actually learned about photography. The energy and the effort is paying off.

I'm excited about actively pursuing an interest, and putting proper energy and time into it. I'm excited about my photos. I'm excited about teaching Zumba. I'm excited about getting ever more fit, and perhaps continuing my path of healthiness and weight loss.

I looked at an 800 watt speaker today that I thought might be a nice one to use for my Zumba classes. 800 watts is a lot. And I am a lot excited. 800 watts excited.

I've been watching the Olympics like it's my job every day. Which means that as soon as I get home from my real job during the day, I plop myself down in front of the television (something I do very rarely) and lose myself in the many colors of the world in all their athletic majesty. It's a good thing the Olympics happen only once every two years, because I always forget how quickly I go from zero to fangirl. I thought after swimming was done, I'd be good to go and return back to life as usual. But alas, I can't help myself.

I'm still sitting here in front of the TV, laptop on hand, working on things to keep life in order during the admittedly insane number of commercial breaks. The coverage may be subpar, and the commercials excessive, but I can't stay away. I barely understand half these sports, but I'm cheering everyone on regardless.

Keep it up, world, you're knocking my socks off. Literally.

I realized recently that I've been doing a lot of reading and a lot of thinking. I've thought about writing quite a bit, but as I read the other day, thinking about writing is not the same as writing. I enjoy spending time thinking about things, reviewing thoughts backwards and forwards, letting ideas and scenarios play out in my head. I remember when I first started blogging nearly seven years ago, how I marveled that I had finally found a place to express my inner self while still maintaining an outside self for appearance's sake. My blog, and the friends around the world I made as a result, helped me find the confidence in myself to come out. There was a whole world out there, I discovered, who accepted me exactly as I was. It was a powerful feeling, and a powerful motivator to write.

I remember doing many of the things new bloggers do. I made "startling" confessions. I wrote posts wherein I used the word "rambling" without a hint of irony. Before long, every life experience became something I could blog about. I wanted to tell stories about my life, things that I found amusing. This, I thought, was what a personal blog was all about.

When I moved away from home for graduate school, I wrote about my experiences. Writing about a terrible roommate situation helped me make it through that tough experience. I met people in my new city and I grew.

After some time, my focus shifted to school, and I put my love for writing on the back burner. I was busy trying to sustain myself, trying to work 30 hours every week and still maintain a full-time course load, plus clinics and internships. I barely had time to do homework, projects, timesheets, clinic notes, and manage my schedule. Besides, I figured, I had run out of stories to tell.

After graduating, I focused on my fellowship. I cultivated friendships. I set goals to improve my health. I drove all over the place. And the whole time, I didn't stop once to write about my experiences. I lived in every moment, and didn't stop to relive them in my head, forwards and backwards. I didn't stop to think about what things might mean.

I shared snippets instead, posting photos on my tumblr site and every once in a while writing fleeting posts about something going through my head. I've spent a great deal of time thinking about what happened to my love for writing, thinking that it had somehow escaped me. Thinking that the daily grind of life post-graduate school had lulled me into a comfort where I didn't feel compelled to express myself. The evidence was plain to see, I thought, with my neglected personal blog.

But as I looked at what I shared elsewhere, and what I shared here, I realized my love for writing still exists. I had simply taken leave, for a time, from a place that I let box me in. I started blogging because I could write about anything, and what I loved writing most of all was things I was thinking. Somewhere along the way, I got into a rut, thinking that I had to write stories and they had to be engaging, interesting and funny. I realize now that they have to be none of those things. They absolutely can be, but they don't have to be.

I've seen many of my favorite bloggers come and go, and leave behind a hobby that suits them because it becomes too pigeon-holed. I know that feeling, and have been fighting it lately. I like the ease of my life now, and how uncomplicated it is to not go looking for blog material. But I miss this place, and the joy I found in writing every day (even if I didn't click 'publish').

I want to find my roots. I want to let the sound of my computer keyboard be my music. I want my words to sing, and my thoughts to shine before me on the screen. I want to write.

Working in the full time world is challenging, to say the least. I've recently come to realize that when I'm not working, my free time is spent in other ways than it used to be. I used to be able to pore a good amount of time into learning code and managing this site and others, whereas lately I've fallen behind and am finding it hard to keep pace. I've been working on building my professional skills, focused on learning new ways to better treat my patients, and also build on my knowledge base. I once heard that graduate school doesn't teach you everything you need to know; that it actually just gives you the tools to learn what you need to know. I think there is something to that, given how little made sense to me until I started really seeing it. It could be that this is just the way I learn, but I'm not sure.

I borrowed the title of this post from a Calvin and Hobbes book. It seemed an apt description of my life these days. Since it's summer, Robert is off work and enjoying his vacation. When I used to work for the schools, we would spend days at the park enjoying a picnic lunch and maybe throwing a frisbee around. Since switching to the medical side of things, however, the notion of summer break is gone. In its place is a full day of work, followed by evenings out and about.

Today was a typical day off for me. I slept in til 9, then got up and before I knew it, we were out on the town. Once errands were done, we hit the pool, followed by a bike ride.

All that left me exhausted, so I'm sitting outside on the patio. There is a slight breeze blowing across my bare feet. Robert sits across from me, reading a book. Birds chirp from the tree nearby. An air conditioner provides a steady hum for an unlikely ambience.

I stop for the first time all day and think, wow, am I ever lucky. I never thought I could say this about moving home, but I feel a level of contentment like never before.

The days really are packed, and I love them this way.

When you only have one day off for your weekend, apparently it is possible to fill every hour of your day with something fun. Take today, for instance. I blocked it out as follows:

1. Drink a smoothie and watch Project Runway.
2. Shower and beautify.
3. Pick up a breakfast burrito and chow down while running errands.
4. Buy cool "film" from a car tinting shop to watch the eclipse.
5. Spontaneously go to the mall.
6. Unplanned shopping extravaganza!, In which fabulous new attire is attained.
7. Arrive at home and gather some clothes to donate.
8. Hop on my bike and explore the neighborhood trails for an hour.
9. Grab my camera and chair to sit outside on the grass and watch the solar eclipse.

Number 9 was marred only when a neighbor we'd never before seen joined us, large glass of wine in hand, and took the opportunity to drunkenly regale us with tales of her son's dreadful birthday party today.

There's a reason why I stopped at 9. Lucky the good part of the eclipse was over, because both Robert and I were more than happy to scurry away from the "I don't usually drink this much but they drove me to it" insane neighbor woman.

And, scene.

I was planning on being asleep right this very second, considering I'm on an airplane for the next three hours. But then I found out that this flight has wifi, and who am I to turn down the internet when it's right in front of me and I have legroom to spare because this flight is half-empty? I rest my case. Plus there's the fact that I've never used the internet while this high in the air, and thought it might be time to change that. On the first leg of this trip,I sat next to a flight attendant who was commuting to work, and we chatted the whole time about traveling and California. It was fun, and he tossed some of those drinks vouchers my way, so now I'm nursing an adult beverage and enjoying how little you have to drink in the air to get a nice buzz.

Because this flight has so few people on board, the staff has been more entertaining than usual. For instance, after takeoff, they offered snacks ”buffet” style, and set up a pile of pretzels at the front of the plane and watched them slide all the way to the back during the ascent. Despite being somewhat sophomoric, I've always wondered what that would look like, and I can't say I didn't enjoy the spectacle.

I'm surprised at just how awake I am right now, and also at just how active my mind is. I guess the steady hum of the airplane’s engine can be calming in its own way. I keep looking out the window and have been watching as the sun sets in the distance. I have always loved having a window near any workspace, and I really can't beat the view from up here. I keep trying to take pictures, but nothing does it justice, and these tiny windows are unfortunately quite dusty.

I hope that, during my lifetime, planes get larger windows, and maybe even see-through ceilings, because I would love to see the starry skies up close.

I like this vantage point, and I like this train of thought. After five months working without anything more than a sick day, this feels very much needed.

It feels good to pause, and to take some time to enjoy my thoughts. I should probably make it a point to do this more often.

If I could have any super power, I think I wouldn't mind the ability to create time. It's terribly cliche, I realize, to point out that there simply aren't enough hours in the day to get everything done, but it's currently something I find myself thinking about at the end of every day. As I've started to fall into a new routine, I've found myself missing elements of my old, pre-move-back-to-New Mexico one. Above all else, I've come to realize I am a creature of habit. The things I'm missing have almost nothing to do with geography (though I do miss the proximity to the ocean). Rather, it's all about the day to day.

I miss my old gym routine. I used to have a regular set of classes I attended, usually every Monday and Wednesday, and some Fridays. It balanced out my work life nicely.

I miss my friends a great deal. Fortunately, as my good friend Nico likes to remind me all the time, we live in the future. Keeping in touch with friends is a snap. Texting, email, video chat, phone calls... All are good ways to keep up with the people who matter. The things that I miss? Hanging out for dinner, watching RuPaul's Drag Race, cooking up a storm.

My new life, so far, is amazing. I wake up every day next to the man of my dreams. I have a job that I love, and enjoy the work I do. The "what" of my life right now is something I've worked very hard to reach. Now I just have to get the hang of the "how".

The mistake I seem to be making is that I'm not in the same place I used to be. I keep looking for something to replace what I used to have. I crave that familiarity. And even though I know it, I still find myself resisting the thought that I have to accept that it won't be the same, and that's perfectly okay.

I knew plenty of change would hit me with all this, I just didn't think I would find it so hard to let the change fully engulf me.

I have a nasty habit of overthinking things, something that I recently hinted at. A certain amount of this is fine, sure, but not when your line of thought is desperately self-defeating. My friend Ashley summed this up nicely:

I have this very simple narrative in my mind about how one accomplishes goals. You make up your mind to do it, then you start, then you kick some ass, then you high five everyone, and then you carry on feeling pretty damn good about yourself.

I frequently break down somewhere along the lines of the "getting started" part. I attribute much of this to growing pains. When I graduated with my interpreting degree in 2006, the thing I wanted, more than anything, was to just be good at it already. More than five years later, I realize that while it is frustrating to start at the beginning, it's worth it. Being a rookie is a good thing. The drive is there to want to be great, but there's only one way to get there. Nothing happens overnight.

Now that I've kick-started my second career, I'm repeating this same process, and it's weird, to say the least, to have both the novice perspective and the "slightly experienced" one.

Having taken an extensive hiatus from blogging, it's weird trying to get back into it. I'm not the same person I was when I started, and I'm not the same writer. I've realized lately that I miss that person. I miss the abandon with which I could write. And instead of going forth and writing, I sat around thinking.

Strange as it sounds for someone who likes to write, I've never kept a journal. I've fancied the idea for ages, ever since I was a teen. But I abandoned that idea because journals were something that could be found and read, and I feared I would share secrets I didn't want known. Last month, I picked up an empty journal I had laying around, unused. After flipping through its empty pages, I grabbed a pen and started writing.

Every time I write in that journal now, I feel more liberated. I can think things through. Maybe some of my late nights spent thinking can lead to some sort of revelation. And maybe not. It doesn't matter, because it's the process that is fun. Even if I never go back to read it, I had fun writing it. I see those pages differently now; the empty pages look up at me, beckoning to be filled with words. And every day, or every few days, I am happy to oblige their longing.

I will find my way again, I'm sure. I didn't realize it until now, but my path to losing weight last year was made possible only because I didn't have a seemingly impossible number in mind. I didn't think "Only 49 pounds to reach my goal of 50!"; my objective was to lose one pound. And then another. And another. And before I knew it, I'd done that over 50 times.

I'll write one word, one sentence, one paragraph at a time. And when I look back, I suspect I'll find I enjoyed the hell out of it all. And that's something, I think, that is worth writing about.

Things I didn't anticipate accomplishing during my 28th year, but I did anyway:

• lost over 50 pounds
• became a Zumba instructor
• moved back to my hometown
• cooked up a storm
• got bitten by the photography bug and bought a DSLR camera
• and today, changed out the RAM on my computer

During my 27th year I completed graduate school and had had hardly a clue about what I wanted in life. This year, I realized what I wanted and worked incredibly hard to make it happen.

Small ideas came to life in big ways. Instead of talking about wanting to be healthier and lose weight, I stopped thinking about losing 20 or 30 or 40 pounds and just went for it. Having no numbers in mind made it easier to just take it a little at a time and enjoy the journey.

I went from thinking about really living my life, to actually living it. I think that's more than I could ask for from a year in life.

The moral of this year's story? Thinking ahead is great! Thinking in specifics in that thinking ahead is not so great. Makes me look forward very much to whatever is in store for me this next year. I have no plans, so perhaps anything is possible.

(And who knows, maybe I'll stop thinking about wanting to blog more and just blog more already.)

I'm watching this movie, right now, that caught my eye because it had obviously gay undertones, and it seemed like an opportune night for easily anticipated plays with stereotypes like gay guys trying to be straight. Plus, it's cleverly titled The Art of Being Straight. I won't lie, the only reason I wanted to watch it for the homoeroticism. I didn't expect to find any charm in the odd camera shots of downtown Los Angeles. Or the acoustic soundtrack. Or to be reminded of what it was like to be in the closet.

Instead of the casual sexiness I was expecting. I got reminiscence.

And for the first time in my life, I don't mind.

I think my culinary prowess is improving. I've gotten really good at futzing around in the kitchen when I know I have other things I should be doing. For instance, tonight one thing on my agenda was to fill out forms explaining how I got electrocuted at work. I pulled up the email from HR, saw that there was an attachment, and suddenly found myself in the kitchen with an assortment of veggies and a chicken breast in front of me. I generally go from "hungry" to "cooking" in 30-180 minutes. I'll hem and haw over exactly what sounds good to me, and there's a good chance I'll page through a cookbook I just realized I've had for two years and never once read. Then I'll decide on what sounds good and go ahead and make something completely unrelated to that. Afterward, I'll probably kick myself for not sticking with my first appetitial¹ instinct.

Tonight's smorgasbord entailed mushroom and garlic chicken over rice. I didn't bother to put much effort into it, so it was plain old chicken with some spices tossed over it. And some sautéed mushrooms and garlic to go with it. Much to my surprise, it turned out delicious. Naturally, I posted a picture of it on Tumblr, because that's what I do.

Gimme another couple of days and I'll be opening a gourmet restaurant. My paperwork might not be filled out yet, but I think you'll like the daily special.

¹An adjective form of "appetite" I created for the sake of this post.

I guess you could say it's been a while. 400-ish days counts as "a while", right? I did a lot of everything, a lot of nothing, a lot of thinking, and not nearly enough writing. It's the latter that I've suddenly found myself missing.

I'm aiming to change that.

The sound of the rain falling outside my window right now is delightful, as is the occasional crash of thunder. Oh, I'm sorry, that's coming from my speakers. LA is known for many things, but a peaceful thunderstorm every once in a while is not among them. I've never been in a thunderstorm with anyone from Los Angeles, but if I was I imagine it would involve them saying the same thing they say about all other variety of weather: "What?!! Where's the sun? Why isn't it shining? It's summer, for crying out loud!!" I kid, I tease... but that doesn't make it any less true. There's a reason I have to play an mp3 just to hear some rainfall. Speaking of summer, though, this one has easily been my best in the last few years. I attribute this mostly to the fact that I, miraculously, am no longer a graduate student! I have to exclaim that because I fought so long for it, and for the longest time it felt like it would never, ever end. It felt as if I would just continue, twice a year, to turn my pockets inside out and slug my way through lectures in the misguidedly false hope that I might one day be gainfully employed.

This summer has been a gift, in many ways. I managed to secure a job I actually wanted, and on top of that, I've pretty much had built-in vacation time because all the paperwork and legal mumbo jumbo takes so long to process. I found time to visit my (only in the summertime) beloved Minnesota, and bask in the glory of the trees and considerably less smoggy air. I got to spend nearly the entire month of July with my partner, who flew out to visit. I've lived in LA for two and a half years now and yet we still managed to do a hell of a lot of things I've never experienced in this city.

I took Robert to the airport yesterday morning, so he could go back to Albuquerque. It never gets easier, saying goodbye, but it turns out I found on odd remedy to take my mind off the pain: a trip to the doctor for a physical and a drug test for my new employer.

I arrived around 11 and a sweet, portly male nurse handed me a clipboard. "Do you need a pen, honey?" I grinned and, like the good Gay McGyver I am, fished out my trusty blue pen from my messenger bag. "Oh, you've got one already, mmmhmmm." I sat down and slogged my way through the obnoxiously small printed forms.

(In case anyone still wants to argue about its merits, I'd like to point out here in this parenthetical aside that Twitter was practically designed with waiting rooms in mind. Trust me, everyone who doesn't use Twitter will suddenly be wildly jealous that you have something that entertaining right at your fingertips.)

After a while, I heard a soft voice call out my name. "Phillip?" I gathered up my stuff to see who it was and was greeted by a nurse in neon pink scrubs. She wore white shoes and ponytail, coupled with an expression that said she took herself very seriously.

"Step over here."

Okay. Done.

"Now I'm going to--okay, now step around here."

I stepped around the counter and joined her.

"Empty out all your pockets in here please... No, your wallet you can keep, I didn't say your wallet."

"You said all my pockets."

"NOT your wallet."

"But you said--"

She cut me off, handed me a cup and informed me that I had four minutes, and only four minutes, to do the drug test. I tried to imagine what would happen if my bladder couldn't meet that demand. She would probably harness some freakishly inhuman strength and break down the door, despite the fact that it doesn't lock, and then tackle me and wrestle the cup from my hands. Her pink scrubs would surely get some of the blue dye on them, from the toilet bowl, and she would no doubt tell a story to all her friends about how she had to fight some big gay guy over a urine sample.

Once I was finished with Our Lady of Urinalysis, it was on to the doctor for the physical examination. They had me toss off all my clothes and then cover myself with a hospital gown, to which I had only one reason to protest.

"Way to tell a guy you don't want to see his beautiful, Southern California tan."

I don't think she even heard me. Selective listening and no sense of humor? That is professional street cred, yo.

The doctor arrived a half hour later, interrupting my game of finding hidden pictures in the drywall of the exam room. He was disheveled, wearing a plaid shirt and wind-blown hair despite the day's utter lack of wind outside. He wiped some crumbs from the side of his mouth and stared at my chart.

"You're vaccinated?"

"Sure."

"No you're not. Are you?"

"What are we talking about."

"TB."

"No."

"Then you lied. It says on your file--"

"Read it. It says tetanus, and I get a yearly TB test."

He left the room, either to regain his composure or else to go finish off the last bite of his sandwich from lunch. Five minutes later, he returned. Lunch, it was.

The rest of that experience didn't get much better, though the guy who did my TB test was pretty cool. The needle pinched more than I cared for it to, but the man was like a real human being instead of a robot. He had a skin tone that made me think he might be from India, with an accent that made him sound like he was from somewhere in South America, perhaps Chile. His name was reminiscent of some kind of Italian food, too. It was that last detail that seemed to matter most at the time.

Compared to yesterday, today seems like a paragon of wonder. Not one thing on my agenda is something I would prefer to avoid, and I aim to start the day by going to a nearby lake and enjoying a walk in the sunshine. That's the weird thing about being done with school; I'm finding myself doing completely new things, and I'm really getting to enjoy my free time. There's a lot of hidden treasures in this city I have yet to see, so I may as well get started.

I heard once that when you're trying to find something, the best way to do so is to stop looking for it. As of late, I have found myself trying to find things about me that have gone dormant. My sense of humor. The flow of words from my fingers on the keyboard. As I have finally come to feel rested, at long last, I have been frustrated by all I seem to have lost. It finally hit me this weekend, when I gave myself the opportunity to not do anything productive, where it all went. It's still there, just expressing itself in different ways. It was Sunday, actually, when it occurred to me that I was bored. I wanted something to do, and was actively seeking out things to occupy my time. Remember that exhaustion I described? It seems I'm finally beyond it.

Next step, just putting one foot in front of the other and getting going. If only I could remember how to walk.