I’m not sure which is harder, moving or moving in.

I’ve discovered that I hate cleaning, washing, folding, and scrubbing. I cleaned our bathroom the other day. In the process of bleaching the bathtub, I was filled with a deep sense of injustice. Though the feeling was irrational, I couldn’t get over it and grew increasingly angry every minute I spent wearing yellow gloves and holding a sponge. Two hours later, with my eyes burning from the fumes of the washing liquid and my clothing soaked, the task was finally done. And now, day three of cleaning, I have a newfound appreciation for those who stay home and take care of the house. Though it’s a job I never want to have, I respect it.

I’m adjusting to Asheville. I feel more and more comfortable in this space and with my roommates, who are truly wonderful people. I’m learning to appreciate the Country music they play in the morning and I’m grateful for their patience when I can’t stand anymore.

But the hardest part in being here is finding my independence. My life in New York was, in many ways, a solitary one. In learning to find my way around the city I was also learning how to be alone. Here, in the mountains, I’m struggling to find confidence when on my own. The silence makes me question what I’m doing, or what I should be doing. I went for a run the other day and not a single car or person passed me. There are so many winding roads that we easily miss each other. We can go on and on till we’ve run clear to the bottom of the mountain. And though the quiet is a beautiful change it also generates a feeling of loneliness. In the roundhouse on a mountain, I’m trying to adjust to the silence. I’m trying to sit with it and breath.

I am getting to know the hillsides, constantly reminding myself to breath.