I’ve been on the road for a couple weeks, first upstate above New York City for a Buddhist event, and then in New York City for a few days, back in the area I lived for thirty years. I’m getting ready to leave tomorrow morning, and feelings about belonging, or not belonging, have been coming up over the past few days.

New York City is its own universe, and for most of my three decades, I loved it. But I lived here, so I belonged. There’s an unspoken bond New Yorkers have because only a certain type of person can survive the noise, aggression, and everything the city throws at you.

Wandering around the same streets I walked for literally decades (mind you, much slower these days), but walking around I realized I’m not part of life here anymore.

I tried to meet up with a bunch of people but most were busy with their New York lives. Some said they were coming to see me but never even messaged before or after to say they couldn’t make it. I feel like I’ve fallen out of step with the community I was once part of.

So I’m now a visitor, which is an adjustment, and I can’t see myself living here again. I mean, rent on my apartment went from under $2,000 a month to $6,200 when I left!

The weird thing is that I know I’ve moved on; I can feel it, but there’s a sadness in realizing you don’t belong anymore in a place you love.

I also met a lot of great people at the Buddhist event, which was nine days long, and caught up with people from literally decades ago. Again, it was wonderful, but my spiritual practice is different from the people there.

They’re the type of practitioner who chants what are called sadhanas, meditates on a cushion, bows with reverence to anyone in robes. I’ve taken a different path. My spiritual practice is publishing fictional books and hoping to inspire or help people through the stories I write. I’m loud, and I’m always ready for a laugh, no matter who’s sitting next to me.

I’m also not good with the bowing or the chanting, and especially not good on a cushion, but my path is just as valid. And it’s a solo journey. So I didn’t feel like I completely fit in there either.

On top of that, I’m beginning to feel that Santa Fe isn’t right for me long term. Don’t get me wrong, I have some great friends and have done a lot, but I never completely adapted to the altitude (it’s 7,200 feet!), and I’m an East Coaster at heart and always will be.

It’s a weird feeling to be floating like this - not good, not bad - just disconcerting perhaps. I don’t have my own family, live alone, don’t have a job to go to - I write books, but I’m not connected with other writers like me.

I don’t belong anywhere and currently have no purpose.

Lately, my question to myself is: do I stop myself from fitting in, or have I simply not found the place I’m supposed to be?

I think it’s a little of both. I don’t have any answers or know what to do about this untethered feeling I have, but I’ll be sixty-five in October, and I’m still looking for home.

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