Two weeks ago, I crossed another "NYC First" off my list: I moved sublets for the first time, lugging my belongings through four different subway stations as I took three trains (with multiple delays) to get to my new location. It could easily have been a day of high stress: Not only was I changing the physical location of where I call "home," I was also moving to a new borough (and a whole new set of subway lines), and moving in with someone I'd only spoken with via text.

 

A year ago, I would have been struck by all kinds of fear, feeling like I'd been ripped up by my roots and clumsily thrust down somewhere else. There would have been the anxiety of moving my things across town, irrational nervousness that somehow I'd gotten the move-in date/time wrong, apprehension about my new roommate, panic that I wouldn't know some unspoken "rule" of subletting, dread of embarassing myself, terror at...well, I think you get the picture.

 

I may have grown up in a military family, but as the youngest, I didn't have to move much. My dad retired when I was in 3rd grade, so Colorado was really all I knew. Moving was always a really stressful thing in my mind. But, over the summer as I was thinking about making the leap to NYC, I started to see it a little differently.

 

It all started with talking about the root chakra during my yoga teacher training. (Honestly, it feels like nearly everything I learn about myself comes back to the root chakra, but that's for a different day.) Part of our homework had been to spend time outside connecting to the earth--like gardening or walking barefoot. One of my fellow trainees shared that he had dug up an old tree stump from the yard, and we all paused for a moment to think on the significance of removing old roots that no longer served us.

 

This metaphor of roots began to really resonate with me. At that point, I pictured myself like an oak, setting down deep roots. Sinking them far into the ground, maybe even wrapping around big boulders and into the veins of a rock formation. But what happens when that oak tree needs to move? It's nearly impossible to dig up, and, invariably, some bits of root are going to be torn off in the process, never to be reattached. And then it's a gamble if the oak will even live in the new conditions: will there be enough sunlight, rain, etc? Will the damage to the root structure be too great? Frankly, change is scary when you look at it with that lens.

 

Instead, over the summer I found that maybe I could be a different kind of tree. For the summer solstice, I invited a friend to go on one of my favorite hikes with me. As we hiked through a valley of aspens, I started spouting off the weird things I'd learned about them while growing up in Colorado: The powder you find on the outside of their trunks can be used as a sunscreen. Those long vertical scars on their trunks are actually from elk stripping and eating the bark. And if you plant an aspen in the garden, you'll end up with aspens growing in the middle of your lawn. It was this last one that he didn't understand, so I started to explain that aspens are root propagators. The roots spread out wide underground, and when they come back to the surface a new tree grows.

 

In reverse, as the branches of a banyan--a sacred tree in Hinduism--spread, they send aerial prop roots down to the ground. Where these roots find the ground, they grow into the trunks of new trees, making dozens (or hundreds) of trees that are all connected, are all part of the same organism. In both cases, there's the potential for a huge grove to grow. Different living trees, all interconnected, experiencing sunlight from many directions in many locations, while still being part of the same life force.

 

When I first started thinking on this idea of being like an aspen instead of an oak, it gave me comfort. I could still keep my roots in Colorado. Moving didn't negate my life there. But my life also wasn't limited to that one location. I could bloom in many places and let all of my experiences be part of me. I didn't have to fear that I wouldn't be able to thrive in a new place. And Colorado would still be there for me if New York didn't work out. Change didn't have to be a violent transplantation, ripped from one location and shoved down in another. Instead, it could be a gentle emergence of new branches and roots, which themselves could one day grow another tree.

 

So, as I dragged my suitcases across four different train platforms to change sublets, I imagined my roots spreading with me. Reaching under the East River and across Central Park, until, like me, they emerged into the open air of Washington Heights, ready to start a new section of life. My first experiences in New York and my friendships made in Astoria are still a part of me, back along those roots. (In fact, the first thing I did in my new place was text my old roomies to say I'd made it safely!)

 

As I met my new roommate (he's lovely) and unpacked my bags, it was like the slow unfurling of new leaves. Each an exploration of my newest location. I found spots for my clothing, my toothbrush, and, of course, my yoga mat (my room's big enough for Old Blue to live on the floor!). As I set up my meditation altar, I decided that I would let fate decide which crystals would be the first to bring their energy to my new home. Reaching blindly into the bag, I pulled out the first stone: onyx, for the root chakra. The chakra of home, of the earth, of being grounded and secure in our existence. Smiling, I knew it was the Universe's way of saying one of my favorite mantras back to me: I am here. I am safe.