When I moved into this building in December 2006, the woman whose studio I was subletting informed me of the positive energy here. “It’s a healing place,” she said. “It will keep you safe.” While I was skeptical, after a while I did notice that my apartment was becoming my home — not just a place in which to sleep or work or watch television — and that I felt a sense of peace and relief walking across its threshold.
That’s a sentiment that has deepened since I’ve moved into this larger apartment. It’s akin to falling in love, being giddy-happy, finding a forgotten $20 bill, getting a “just because” present, nuzzling babies’ cheeks, first kisses (the passionate ones), laughing ’til you cry, and just feeling like you belong somewhere.
It’s no secret that I lust after New York City almost as much as I crave dark chocolate, sailboats, and other people’s puppies, but it’s becoming increasingly important for me to fully experience — and articulate my gratitude for — Chicago and my existence here. Because the truth of the matter is that I love the life I have made for myself. Despite the disappointments and the struggles and the times when I’m curled up on my couch convinced I am going to be the first single thirtysomething woman to die from crying, I can’t think of anything I need that I don’t have. To be sure, there are plenty of things I want — more money, regular sex, a stable relationship, a maid — but I’m 100% okay without them. And for that, I have my apartment building to thank. Because it really has been a healing place. Namaste.