twelve months.

Tomorrow marks one year since the day I left for Colorado, and two years since the day I graduated from college. Funny how time flies. As the days get longer and the air gets warmer, I find myself becoming increasingly nostalgic for last summer: the gorgeous, sunny day hikes through green meadows filled with wildflowers, the lazy mornings spent floating around on pool rafts, baking in the 100-degree sunshine, the late nights spent in downtown bars, searching for nothing but an innocent good time with a girlfriend or two (though occasionally finding more than we bargained for). Eventually those thoughts give way to memories of the fall: of finally sharing my amazing world with friends and family from home, of trekking over the Rocky Mountains at 12,000 feet, endlessly in awe of the stark contrast between the vibrant yellows of the autumn aspens and the crisp blue of the alpine sky, of learning important life lessons from unfamiliar back woods and the unspeakably haunting, howling wind. After that, it gets muddy. Next thing I know, I'm back in Rhode Island. And a minute later, my life is completely different from what I had imagined and I'm about as comfortable as I would be had I never left. Let's back up.

I'm pretty sure I've said that Colorado changed me about as many times as one can say something without being labeled with a memory disorder. But to a certain extent, it's true. If nothing else, it changed my values. I remember listening to a speaker at the Science Writers conference in November and being struck by the realization that I had always cared about ideas more than people. For the majority of my adult life, I had been far more interested in learning about abstract concepts than I had been in interacting with my fellow man. But sometime between that trip and the time I moved back to New England, all of that changed. At some point, I stopped living my life in my head, and I started living it with my heart. I think it happened over Thanksgiving. Despite my history of running off on my own, I had never felt that kind of profound loneliness before. For the first time, I realized that I needed people. And slowly but surely, my urgent desire to belong to the world has blossomed into a quiet sense of clarity that I've never felt before.

There are days when I miss Colorado a lot. I miss my friends and the sunshine and the mountains. But I haven't once regretted my decision to come back to Rhode Island. Despite the frequent dreary weather, the distinct dearth of open space or elevation, the cranky people, the crappy roads, the constant rush and congestion... it's home. I felt relieved the minute I crossed the state line. I'm going to be honest, it has been a challenging couple of months. Hell, it has been a challenging year. But I worked it out. I accomplished everything I wanted to. I'm happy. And I'm ready for yet another fantastic summer.

On being here now.

I've been destination-oriented for as long as I can remember. As much as I loved theatre when I was younger, I never liked rehearsing very much; it was the final performance that always drove me. In high school, I spent my time taking pictures of everyone and everything so I'd have the memories to look back on, rather than focusing on enjoying the experience in the moment. I looked forward to my college exams more than I did classes. I watch movies to have watched them and I read books to have read them. Sometimes I even find myself wanting good things to end simply for the relief of being on the other side of the pain that will ensue when they do.

I know a number of people right now who are undergoing transitions. Some are just a little confused, and some are on the brink of quarter-life crises. Yesterday, a few friends and I were lamenting the fact that we're spending the prime years of our lives consumed by concern over our futures. Personally, I know I've always been in a hurry to grow up because I crave stability. I'm terribly impatient, I despise failing, and I can't stand feeling like life is out of my control. But what's funny about all of those things - and what I'm only now starting to realize - is that all of this evolving is the fun part. Now, somebody once told me that I concentrate so much on purpose that I don't know how to have fun. That comment bothered me for years but, to be honest, in a way I think he was right. And I don't think I'm alone. So many of us are so focused on tomorrow that sometimes we forget to live right now. And the truth of the matter is that we'll never be younger than we are today.

Of course you need to plan for the future. But only until it starts to detract from your present. The answers will come when you're ready for them. I spent years and years hoping to control circumstance by sheer willpower alone, thinking and rethinking my big life choices until I was blue in the face. But it wasn't until I became very still - until I sat on a train quietly observing the world as it flew by my window, until I heard the pounding of music in my ears and felt the wind racing through my hair, rolling down a hill on my bike - that everything seemed to fall into place. I still feel jealous when I encounter people who seem to have their entire lives figured out, but I'm trying not to get ahead of myself anymore. I'm trying to step out of my own way so I can be the one place I need to be: here, now. And so far, it's going swimmingly.