I am, once again, in an airport. I watch the rush of humanity, the people in a hurry to get from point A to point B (or, perhaps, enjoying as I am a brief moment of people-watching.) I’ve always been fascinated by airports. Though I have more flying miles than the angel Gabriel under my metal wings, each take-off is special, as we forge a treaty with gravity to allow us to escape its grasp and fly to places far or near, known or unknown, foreign or home.

This time the purpose of my flight is significantly different than my last, only two short weeks ago. This time I am moving back to Los Angeles.

The interview went well, but there came a snag with the position. Instead of a full-time salaried position, they changed the game and offered me a three-month contract with the possibility (likelihood?) of extension or conversion to fulltime after that. I hemmed and hawed for a while: moving back to LA with only three months’ employment guaranteed? (Or was it even guaranteed? What would happen if my performance wasn’t up to par? What would happen if, even after such a breeze of an interview process, I didn’t fit in with the rest of the team?) I consulted with friends, searched my soul, contemplated the alternatives, and in the end decided to go for it. When opportunity knocks, you open the door. Even if the employ only lasted for three months, I’d be subleasing my apartment (to one of my best friends, Jeff) and would be able to return. I’d likely be able to return to the Obama campaign and continue to have paid work. I’d be able to fit back in with my friends, returning after an extended trip.

But I can’t deny that I’m a little nervous—maybe even a bit scared. I’m moving out with two suitcases of clothing, my yoga mat, my speakers, a scanner, and my computer and its accessories. And perhaps the most important part of ‘marking my territory’—a book from my library. I figured Pooh and the Philosophers was an appropriate book to bring along. I haven’t read it yet but I decided that this flight would be an opportune time.

In case the need to bring along a book seems odd, I’ve had a tradition, since books are such a vital part of my existence. Whenever I get a new apartment, the first thing I do is place a book in it. I must have at least some of my books in my apartment, and the fact that I’ll start out with only one is a little distressing—and almost shameful.

How do I feel? Good question. Excited, frightened, nervous, anxious, panicky, anticipating, antsy… the whole gamut of emotions I could feel at making such an extreme change. But on the whole the major emotion I’m feeling, the most important emotion, the trump card is: content. I feel contentment and hope that this new assignment in life will turn out well and lead me further down the path of the happiness I’ve started to develop these past six months. I’ve really made an about-face, a one-eighty, a complete turnaround in my life since moving to Chicago, it feels. I tore myself from the rut of LA, threw myself into intensive therapy, reconnected with old friends, re-entered the fulltime working world, aced an interview, and above all felt happiness—or at least contentment— for the first time in years.

What does this mean? What does this hold for the future? I feel as though I can tackle anything now… any situation thrown at me. Perhaps not with flying colors, but I can do it. I’m not worried about falling back into my rut as I have a job that, ostensibly, is not as toxic an environment as my last. I have Jon’s assurance that it’s a good work environment, as he recruited me and wants me to be there by his side, the counterpoint front-end to his back-end development.

I think I can do it. No—I know I can do it.

Celebration can happen in many forms, but I think the unexpected are perhaps the most rewarding. Unexpected celebration: flying first-class from Minneapolis to Los Angeles. As I had conceded to staying with my parents for two days before returning to LA, they agreed to purchase my tickets using their frequent flier miles (of which they had more than god himself.) Out of luck and availability, the second leg of my flight, from MSP to LAX just happened to be first-class. We love it. Actually being fed, drinks and food on real plates and glasses, free wine and other adult beverages, exemplary service, enough arm room to actually type on this laptop instead of squinching myself into a tiny area in which to try to recount my stories, as the last trip afforded.

A small perk. I told myself I was celebrating and I am. Soon I will be back in the arms of multiple loved ones for months and things will be good. Granted, they were good in Chicago… but things can always be better, no?

Pieces about my life and other thoughts, for better or for worse. Mostly for worse.