We've been in New York City for a few months now. My family and I. Each of us trying to find our relation to this vibrant, pulsing, humming, screaming, shimmering city. It is at times a soothing presence, more often than not, an irritating one and in interesting contrast to our quiet and spacious existence in colorado and New Mexico. Yet, it gets under your skin, this place. If you allow yourself the space to quietly observe the river of life around you, it becomes a magical, mysterious celebration. I've hardly ventured past our own neighborhood, generously placed between two large parks, but even in brief walks around the block there is so much inspiration and feeling to this place. The birdbath on 99th street, the multitude of shapes and sizes of dogs, often mirrored by their owners, the strains of violins, sopranos, pianos, cellos, basoons (we live in a neighborhood of musicians as we are relatively close to the Lincoln Center) offering a soothing soundtrack to our walks, beyond the more jarring one of sirens and truck horns. The dancing iridescence of the Hudson River often greets me in early mornings alongside the neighborhood rat who I try to visualize as the cute one from Ratatouille but fail every time. I consider myself a mere visitor here, passing through for a few years for the sole purpose of our son's musical education. But, with no small amount of trepidation, I admit that I'm falling in love.