Gig days are weird. I try to focus on work and what needs doing, but there is always a part of my internal energy that is shooting out ahead of the present moment to anticipate what’s coming. Am I prepared? What about the verse on that one tune? Do I really want to do “I Concentrate on You” as a duet with the bass player? What am I going to wear? How much time do I need to get ready, haul equipment, warm up and not feel rushed?

I’m singing with jazz guitarist Dennis Winge, and bass player, Jim Curtin. I’ve only performed with Dennis once before and it went really well. I’ve never performed with Jim, but he’s a player; he knows what to do. Yet I can’t help but feel antsy, uncertain.

Sometimes, like today, nervous anticipation disguises itself as fatigue. I get tired, sleepy, and I feel exposed and vulnerable. I tuck myself inside to hide a bit before I need to come out in performance.

I was talking to my friend Terese Genecco who performs regularly at the Iridium in New York City. She never gets nervous. She gets amped up, but not anxious. But at her last performance at the Iridium, there was a talent scout coming to see her, and while she claims she wasn’t nervous, I was with her just before she left her apartment to go do that show, and she was nervous.

And it was one of the best nights she ever had. She told me her voice would do anything she wanted it to. She was wild, alive and free to go full out and beyond. Her band was hot and playing their best in order to impress her guest drummer, Michael Berkowitz. It was magic on steroids.

I guess that’s it. As singers we wonder, Will my voice let me do whatever I want tonight? What limitations or compromises will I be presented with? The performance space? The ability to hear myself? The moodiness of my instrument? It’s these unknowns that spark the inner jitters.

I don’t know what’s going to happen tonight. I never do. My intention is to show up, be fully present inside each song, listen to my boys and ride the music. Meanwhile, I need to get back to work.

Three blocks up, two blocks over to a truly great space on Hone Street.

And in many ways, this move was more dramatic than my move cross country.

I’m still in the neighborhood I love, the Rondout, but I no longer have to suffer through the noisy DJ parties that Mariners and Ship To Shore would have on Friday or Saturday nights to all hours of the morning. No more am I awoken by rumbling trucks on the way to the salvage yard or by the uber obnoxious Harleys with straight pipes. No, now I live above an architect’s office in an 1800’s brick building surrounding by churches that chime sweetly on the hour. But not ALL hours!

And I signed a year lease this time. Made a commitment to stay. And the same week I moved into my new and amazing place, my husband made the first payment to buy me out of our house in Sebastopol. The timing was uncanny. Symbolic. And at times, hard to handle.

As I took a walk this morning, my first in a long while because the weather has been snowy and slick, I realized, I live here now. I really am here, if not for good then for a good long while. I visited my favorite cemetery, now covered in snow, and I took the photo you see here on this post. “This Way Out.” Great sign to post in a cemetery, don’t you think?

When I got back to my new space, the New York Times (the weekend edition) was waiting for me. My first at-home delivery. I curled up on the couch in the stream of the sun coming through the tall living room windows, drank coffee and read about Corrine Baily Rae and all the new movies coming out. Maxie cat joined me in the sun while Mark connected cables to his console in the studio.

My new home.

As if with a wave of a magic wand, Fall swooped in and turned leaves crimson, orange and gold. Now, winter has announced itself, and the trees are almost completely bare, waiting for their first skim of snow. It’s time to pack away the t-shirts, shorts and sun dresses and haul out sweaters, gloves and woolly socks.

Of course, I expected a change of seasons. But such a dramatic one? It’s as if God flips a switch and, poof! We’re jolted into a new sensory landscape.

During the Spring, Summer and even the beginning of Fall, there’s a noise and energy here in the Rondout of Kingston. Those seasons are filled with festivals, parades, and outdoor concerts that attract big crowds of locals and tourists. The streets fill with people. Motorcycles roar up and down Broadway (driving me crazy), and restaurants line the sidewalks with tables and chairs so they can serve alfresco. Every couple of hours, you hear the Rip Van Winkle, a large ferry boat that tours the Hudson River, sound its horn, bell and toot before pulling away from the dock.

But now, all the docks in the marina have been taken out of the water. The Rip Van Winkle is tied to the shore for its long winter nap. There is hush in the air, a strange, sudden silence that is both welcome and sad. Brian, the hot dog man, still shows up almost every day with his cart, trying to make the most of the time he has left before it’s be too cold to be outside all day.

This will be my first New York Winter, and I eagerly await the first flurries of snow. While I’m dreading the idea of driving in snow and ice, I’m honestly looking forward to this season. It was in Winter that I fell in love with New York and decided, yes, I have to live here. I fell in love with the cold and the snow. And the silence.

Winters announce the end of things, and this winter brings with it the end of my 25-year marriage. My husband and I are at the beginning of a 6-month process that will end in divorce. I filed the petition while I was in California earlier this month. There is no battle, no argument, no anger, no animosity. We are walking this path with understanding, respect and love.

I know this end of our 25-year season promises glorious beginnings for both of us, just as Winter promises Spring. But I can feel the promise and still mourn the loss. No matter how right this choice is for me or for him, it is an ending, a dismantling of something that once was everything.

So come now, Winter, with your short days and long nights. Come bring me that first muffling blanket of icy white. I’m ready.