"Someday, I hope I get to live in New York."

I can't count how many times that sentence came out of my mouth as a teenager.

For many people, just getting to New York is victory, a sure sign you've made it. Why is going to New York such a common dream? Movies? TV? Music?

Is it indicative of some shared consciousness, of some innate need to be in that city? Or is it something more sinister?

I thought that if I moved to the right city, got the right job, made the right amount of money, and met the right people, I'd "make it."

After a few months atrophying in a New York office, I realized the scheme. Make the city so compact, artificial, and distant from nature that you can't distinguish between your work and your life.

Nature reminds us of leisure, leisure reminds us that it's 10pm and we're still in the office. A cage of mirrored glass and concrete keeps you from leaving.

When I got stuck living there it was hard to adjust knowing the city was killing me, eroding my humanity.

But around the same time Jorge taught me about gratitude journaling, God planted a cherry blossom outside my window. It made the exercise a little easier.

Despite the misery outside my apartment, I found home in Jorge. Home is not where you live, home is where you feel alive.

That's what Roses is about.