This past weekend I went on a trip to Ithaca to see friends, hear music, and eat delicious food. It was a lovely trip, and although the weather was unbearably cold, I had a great time and was granted with a greater appreciation for the balmy NYC temperatures. On Saturday morning I had coffee with Chris, my unusually tall friend, and we had a conversation about how we each feel about Ithaca, now that we've moved on and started to carve out lives for ourselves. We agreed that, although we both love Ithaca (and probably always will), neither of us felt like it was home anymore.

At various times in the past 6 years I've thought of Ithaca as an answer to something. Before I was a student I was sure it would be the place where I would "find myself." It's been a refuge, a home, a place I wanted to get out of... but I guess that is the way with any place you live for an extended period of time. The last time I visited post-graduation it felt alive with memories. Anyway, the conversation with Chris reminded me that you can't go home again.

And it's true: you can't go home again. I have always found this phrase immensely depressing. I used to hate any reminder of the general impermanence of things in life, but this time I found the phrase comforting. Knowing that I can't go home again helps me resist the temptation to pine for that ever elusive and beautiful ghost: the past. Ithaca is not my home anymore, but I can enjoy it now with fresh eyes and a sense of possibility.