Photo by MilliGFunk Photography

Even though it’s beginning to feel like it’s been a long time since I lived in Brooklyn, I still miss the arts scenes there. Taking the photography my husband gave me as a birthday gift through Bemis School of Art challenges me to continue to grow in how I executive my creative ideas.

I may not be exposed (punny, huh?) to the best art in the world in Colorado like I was in New York, but I still strive to live a creatively meaningful life. I wanted that to come through in our elopement ceremony and I want it to be apparent when you enter our home.

Photo by Jon Collins

For the ceremony, I created all of our flowers, made my veil, and wore sparkly white canvas TOMs wedding shoes.

Photo by Jon Collins

One week before our wedding, we were told unexpectedly by our realty management company, Advanced Realty Concepts, that our lease would be terminated early at no cause of our own,  just before my husband’s deployment to Afghanistan. So in the midst of final plans for our ceremony and hosting our families who were visiting from four different states, we had to find a new place to live.

Two weeks later, we’ve moved into our new place, but I’m taking my time and being very intentional about how we decorate and organize our new home. It may not be a brownstone in Brooklyn, but that doesn’t mean we can’t come home at night to a place that inspires us.

I miss my friends who live in other places, but I feel closer to them when we share music and food. So on this lovely Monday morning, I’m listening to music by Portugal, the Man, recommended to me by my friend Factor as I eat breakfast that also reminds me of good friends.

Photo by MilliGFunk Photography - Taken at the Ferry Building in San Francisco, CA

My toast was made of fresh bread from a Colorado Springs bakery called Great Harvest Bread Company with jam I picked up from happy girl kitchen co. on a visit to see my best girls in San Francisco. To top it off, I’m drinking French coffee I bought from Colorado Springs’ Colorado Coffee Merchants, a roaster I took my best friend to when she visited me in Colorado in November.

With the Girls in Napa - Photo by HubbyGFunk

When you cultivate a life in which the little things are meaningful, the big things (like deployments and unexpected moves)  have less power to throw you off course, and geography feels like less of a barrier between you and the people you love.

Whether it’s locally-made bread or wearing TOMs in your wedding; making your own flowers or appreciating the sentiment behind a gift from a friend, I hope you’ll take a moment today to find peace in a little thing or two that make you happy.

MilliGFunk & BrotherGFunk at a Halloween Festival at the Brooklyn Place of Employment

Towards the end of my years in Taiwan and New York, I was beginning to get a better idea of what I wanted for myself and my life. I had identified financial, professional, and values-based goals for myself.

Let’s start with the most tangible and easily quantifiable goal; money.

When I was offered my job in Missouri, my organization in Brooklyn provided me a counter-offer as incentive to stay in New York.

I ran all of the numbers, from taxes to rent to average utility payments to commuting expenses, and while I could have continued to build my life in New York, it would have taken me a decade more in New York to reach goals I could conceivably have achieved in a few years in Missouri.

Financially, the move was one of the best decisions I’ve made in my adult life. The cost of living in New York City is more than six times the cost of living in rural Missouri.  By saving as much money as I have in rent, utilities and groceries since moving to Missouri, I’m making financial headway that would have been impossible in New York, even if I’d accepted my organization’s offer for promotion.

Speaking of my organization, there were some significant professional reasons why moving to Missouri was the best decision for me at that juncture in my career…

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This is part two in a multi-part story that I hope will answer what seems to be my life’s biggest question, “Why did you move from New York to rural Missouri?” Come back tomorrow to read more.

I came across a photo of the Brooklyn Bridge by accident, and suddenly I could smell the air in DUMBO (down under the Manhattan and Brooklyn Overpasses) and hear the noises of New York City. As if I were standing at the edge of a high cliff, vertigo swept over me and my stomach turned flip-flops. My body froze for a second as if I might fall over the edge out of rural Missouri and into the heart of Brooklyn.

And then, as fast as it overcame me, I was back in my leather desk chair in my cozy office in rural South/Central Missouri where the air smells like trees and the only noises are my office fan and Peter Gabriel’s cover of “Flume”.

In my first year back in my home state, I’ve learned…

1. That the first year is only the beginning. I came here hoping for new and great professional and personal challenges. Boy oh boy, have I met them. And as the first year ends, I’m not over the hump yet…I know that year #2 is going to teach me, mold me, and refine me even more. Bring it on, second year…I’m ready for you.

2. That you can’t romanticize the past. (See my letter to New York.)

3. That my family is rockin’. I seriously can’t imagine having parents who are any more supportive, loving and understanding than mine are.

4. That the midwest does not, contrary to popular NYC opinion, make you fat.

5. That country music ain’t so bad.

6. That a big city, overly-educated woman can learn a helluva lot from a small town, life-educated man.

7. That small town Missouri has a lot going for it. A year into this blog, I’m doing anything but running out of fodder to write about. For each new post I publish, I have ideas for several more. And my readers and twitter friends are constantly making great suggestions for places I’ve not seen or heard about yet.

8. That persistence pays off – a year ago I hoped to someday be published, so I started writing and doing photography for smalltowngirlsguide.com. Now I’m writing and doing photography regularly for two magazines, and seeing opportunities arise to either guest blog or be the subject of other people’s blogs.

9. That the great social media experiment worked – I wondered if I could use SM to minimize the geographic space between me and my friends/colleagues in other cities. Social media can’t replace real-life interactions, but it can certainly help to maintain relationships at a distance.

10. That my marketing and social media ideas for nonprofits work. A year into the first NPO job where I’ve had significant responsibility, decision-making power, and strategic influence, I’m seeing real, tangible results.

For better or for worse, it’s been one hell of a year.

To anyone who’s venturing out into a new endeavor,  making a life change, or seeking the courage to try a new path, consider yourself encouraged. My first year in Missouri has brought every challenge and opportunity I had hoped that it would…and more. Much, much more. But the first year is only the beginning.

Take chances. Make the harder decision. Challenge yourself. It’ll be worth it, I promise.

I’ve not forgotten you. Even as I lace up the hiking boots that I’m wearing to work today, I haven’t forgotten you. Even though I swore to myself a year ago that I’d never wear them to the office, I still remember you. As I look at the work-issued polo shirts hanging in my closet, I haven’t forgotten the promise I made to you that I’d never submit to wearing polos.

Nor have I forgotten the agreement that we made against me ever, ever wearing  khaki pants. But the polos are my “uniform” at work, and the khakis aren’t Dockers, they’re North Face. I bought them at REI, and they’re just so darned practical. Don’t you see that I can leave the office in said khaki pants and boots and head straight for the trails? Not that I’ve ever gone hiking directly from work, but you just never know when I might need to.  No, no, no…I promise you, New York. I haven’t forgotten you.

Even though I listen to country music sometimes in the car, I haven’t forgotten New York. My ipod is still loaded with Dark Was the Night, Bonnie “Prince” Billy, The Black Keys, and a slew of other artists who actually sing and write their own songs. And when Emily Wells comes on, I close my eyes and in an instant I’m back on the G train heading to Long Island City from Fort Greene.

New York City, I have not forgotten you. But I’ve learned not to romanticize you, either. As I look out my Southeast Missouri window and a halfway frozen creek and low-rolling hills covered in snow, I can see the sky and breath in fresh air. My view of Fort Greene Park on South Oxford Street wasn’t bad, New York, but this one is better.

And don’t think that I’ve forgotten the four flights of stairs I had to climb to get to my apartment there, New York, because I haven’t. Here in Southeast Missouri, I don’t have to carry my groceries up those steps. Nor do I have to haul my laundry up and down them on my way to that dingy, expensive laundry mat two blocks away. In fact, I have my own washer and dryer here, and my laundry room is bigger than my bedroom was there. You want me to forget those exhausting little details, but I haven’t. I remember you, New York…I remember everything about you.

I remember the beautiful spring days and the way the fall rushed in on me on one particular Saturday morning when suddenly the walk to the farmer’s market required a jacket and a warm cup of coffee between my cool hands. I also remember the woman who was raped in plain sight a block and a half from my home. Don’t think I’ve romanticized you, New York.

I remember the rush of riding on that Triumph Bonneville for the first time over the bridge into Manhattan on our way to see some obscure indie film. That was the first time I saw the skyline without a layer of scratched, greyed subway car window glass between it and me. But you know what, New York?  I also remember how God-forsaken cold you felt that day when my relationship with the man who drove that Triumph ended.

You’re a bitter sweet city, New York. You felt like home to me in so many ways. Ways that I don’t anticipate I’ll ever feel at home in any other city or town. But you and I? We’re over. For now at least.

So please, New York. Please, let’s remember the good moments fondly, but let’s not forget what a pain you can also be. Let’s let go of what was so that I can enjoy what is, and so that you can move on to your next unsuspecting small town girl. She’ll arrive on your sidewalks without realizing that you’re after her heart, and you’ll slip into that heart, making yourself irresistible to her just like you did to me. Girls like me are a dime a dozen to you, New York, so please, please, let me go.

Thanks New York.

Love,

MilliGFunk

Central Park Leaves, photo by smalltowngirl

It’s not just New York that I miss, but then again, it’s probably never place, separate from the rest of life, that anyone misses. For the last two days, I’ve missed New York City with an aching, depressing, loneliness that only hits at the end of the day, when my guard is down, my mind is resting, and my heart takes control.

It’s not just the cold, windy streets of New York in November that I miss. It’s not just the feeling of the air on the day when a light jacket is no longer enough. It’s not just the weeks when the leaves disappear from the trees and orange leaves turn to brown that eventually becomes covered by snow. It’s not just the smell of the subway or the sound of my cowboy boots clunking against the concrete.

I miss more than that.

It’s not even just my yoga classes in the tiny, musty old basement of the YMCA in Greenpoint, even though those yoga classes brought me so much peace and clarity. It’s not just the long ride on the G train from Fort Greene to Long Island City to see the man who held me so close for so many months. And it’s not just the hot tea he’d fix me on cold winter nights when I arrived at his apartment, cheeks and nose reddened from the cold. It’s not just the two-eggs-and-cheese-on-a-kaiser-roll-and-a-coffee-with-cream-no-sugar that was my Friday morning street vendor breakfast tradition.

I miss more than that, too.

It’s not just the long walks on Sunday mornings, when Brooklyn was relatively still. It’s not just the dodgeball league I played on or my studio of piano students in Bensonhurst or my coworkers at the Garden. It’s not just the shortcuts I learned to take or the feeling of accomplishment that came from doing even basic things like laundry or grocery shopping in such a massive city. It’s not just the craftsman in Union Square or the dozens of great little shops in SoHo or the amazing wine bar in Fort Greene.

I miss everything about New York and what it represented in my life.

I miss that time when I was fresh back in the United States after twelve months studying Chinese and working and traveling in Asia. Nothing was too gritty, too real, too raw for me then. I miss my New York City love life and the man who loved me. I miss my tiny bedroom with my big window in my fourth story walk-up on my Cosby Show block in Brooklyn.

I miss the way I felt when I lived there; like the entire world was at my fingertips, and I could do anything. It felt like I was at the front edge of the world; of fashion, of finance, of the Arts…of pretty nearly everything.

So tonight I admit that for as much as I’m trying to love Missouri and seek out what’s beautiful and interesting and gritty and inspiring about this state, I miss New York City.  I still believe that the move back to Missouri was the right decision, but I miss New York with an aching throbbing loneliness that I don’t even know how to begin to address.

Ste. Genevieve is a truly beautiful and historic town, but the part of Ste. Gen I’d like to share with you this morning is just a simple store front window with my reflection in it; a little piece of a place I hold dear to my heart (literally, since I wear a necklace with a pendant of the Brooklyn Bridge most days).

If you look closely, you can see reflections of Ste. Genevieve’s downtown just below an image of the Brooklyn Bridge and New York City.

Brooklyn Bridge - Ste. Gen style, photo by/of smalltowngirl

Today I leave for a weekend trip to Pittsburgh, where a close friend of mine is getting married. Twelve hours in the car today doesn’t leave much time for talking to twitter friends or reminding people that a new post is up, so do a smalltowngirl a favor, and pass this link on to your friends!

From my Bedroom Window, photo by smalltowngirl

In the Midwest, we see 9/11 as a large scale event. We’re compassionate, but we still it through the lens that the news crews shared it; not from the eyes of someone living in the community directly affected. Living in New York changed that for me. My friends would occassionally remember that day quietly and in detail.

Walking through Park Slope with my friend Michael, he refleced out loud about where he and his girlfriend each were that day. He told me that they’d not lived in New York City for very long, and that for all the fear they both felt, living through 9/11 is also one of the things that made them feel like New York City was their city and Park Slope was their community. They sat on a rooftop in Brooklyn, watching the Manhattan skyline burn. I watched it all on television.

Separately, another friend described the dust-covered Brooklyn streets. Like a light snow, he said, all of the neighborhood’s cars, streets, and buildings were covered in grey ash and dust.

I didn’t live in New York City in 2001, but I’ve felt the absense of steel and breath and life at Ground Zero. It’s a place were people commuted to work just like the rest of us commute to our own offices or schools or job sites. At one time, Ground Zero was an office not unlike yours or mine to the people who worked inside of it.

New York City is a city of greatness. Its power and achievement are unrivaled by any other city in the United States, but New York City is also a city made up of real, normal people.

No matter how significant keywords like “national security” or “terrorism” or “patriotism” are, 9/11 is about individual people going about their daily work; heading to the office, dropping the kids off at school, or sipping their morning coffee.

In the Midwest we say “Never Forget”, and we remind ourselves once a year that today is the eleventh of September. Many of the individual people who I hold close to my heart experience 9/11 in unexpected flashbacks and daily reminders of what happened in their community.

To my friends here in the Midwest, I hope that you’ll continue to show respect for the individuals and their families who lived through 9/11 in New York City. 9/11 is not a symbol to them of one specific day in history; it’s a lens through which many of my friends now see their daily lives. We say “never forget”, but after living in New York City, I wonder how you ever can.

As is evidenced by my lack of blogging over the last seven days, I’ve had a hellacious week, and hanging out tonight was a much needed and celebratory end to my 80-hours of hell at work.

Nothing like some rooftop ferris wheel action to chill me out:

Rooftop Ferris Wheel, photo by Ron a.k.a. @SlavicSoulParty

I met Michael at music festival in Kenting, Taiwan in the spring of 2007, where he was performing with his band One Ring Zero (theramins, accordians, and all-around creative genius…for real, check them out.).

smalltowngirl with Lily and One Ring Zero in Taipei, 2007

When I arrived in Park Slope, Brooklyn later that year, he was my ambassador to the neighborhood, making introductions for me, familiarizing me with local restaurants, and generally unsuring that I wasn’t getting run over by New York City.

In short, Michael’s a good guy.

Tonight, I also got to meet Ron, who plays with “Songs for Ice Cream Trucks” as well as with Brooklyn-based Slavic Soul Party. (check him out on twitter @SlavicSoulParty). City Museum, Blueberry Hill, and good company helped end my otherwise pretty friggin’ lousy week on a high note.

Fun at the City Museum, photo by Michael Hearst

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Check out some of the creative work Michael and/or Ron are involved in:

Songs for Ice Cream Trucks – Tomorrow (Sunday, 7/26) at 1 pm at St. Louis Art Museum

One Ring Zero

Slavic Soul Party

Michael Heart dot com

The 18:59 Podcast (with Rick Moody)

And a link to my favorit bar and venue in Brooklyn: Barbes

Our hearts are like those lakes, oceans, seas, gulfs and streams sometimes in that there is a darkness within them. There is a black, broken place inside even the kindest of hearts.

When I was 15, I went SCUBA diving in the ocean off the coast of Mexico. I was surprised that the bottom of the ocean at that particular spot wasn’t dark at all. In fact, it was beautiful and colorful and filled with amazing textures and patterns. Tonight I’m reminded of the bottom of the ocean, and suddenly the depths of my own heart aren’t so intimidating.

As much as I loved the compexities of Brooklyn, I’m thankful for the introspection, faith and courage I’ve found in Missouri. The depths of our fears are far more gentle and beautiful than we can imagine.

I challenge you to dive into your own.