I have yet to meet someone who relocated to New York City who felt settled in less than four months. Though they may have grown accustomed to the practices and quirks of the area, they report that, even three months in, things still occasionally felt unsettled, unfamiliar, and uncomfortable. It’s not that they didn’t like the city; it simply still felt a little odd, like a shirt that mostly fits, but not entirely. The shoulders are a little too small, the neck a little too big.

I have taken a hiatus or two from writing here in the past. During those occasions, I was preoccupied with other things which, as much as I would have liked to exorcise them from my head, I was unable to. Because these things consumed so much mental energy, I had little left to direct at writing. As much as I love the written word—its ability to generate ideas and foster curious possibilities, the creativity that can occur within its strict structure, and its magical ability to connect individuals—I found myself staring blankly at the blinking cursor, wondering why I was wasting time.

My relocation to New York City was not merely a physical transplantation from Seattle to Manhattan. I’m not sure what more it entails, since it continues to unfold. As I watch the world around me and my reactions within, I am noticing things that I hadn’t previously recognized. By no means do I understand everything that I notice and I anticipate that I shall not fully appreciate these experiences until many days, weeks, months, years later. A lot of time may pass before I “get it”, before I learn just a few of the many things that I still don’t know. (Or, more accurately, what I may already know but refuse to acknowledge. There’s the way the world should be and the way the world is. Learning to accept the latter is often the most difficult lesson of all.)

I’ve now lived in New York for a little over a month and a half and I’m still preoccupied. I find it difficult to write. It’s not merely a function of time—though that is definitely part of it. It’s also a function of will. I can’t find it right now.

So I’m taking another break from intueri.org. It was obviously coming; I haven’t been proud of this type of spotty posting (because, you know, I like sticking to my commitments). I don’t know how long it will last. It is my sincere hope that I will resume writing again in the (near) future, as that will indicate that my mental qi has resumed its usual flow and rhythm. However, in truth, I lack the confidence to make that prediction with any enthusiasm. I am a psychiatrist, not a psychic.

Thank you, reader, for indulging my thoughts. May you stumble across wonderful prose, generously share your own stories, and continue to notice all of those details that others often overlook.