In Florida the sand had a funny way of growing.  It began after leaving the beach and washing my feet with the cold water from the boardwalk hose. Sliding each damp foot into my shoes, I was surprised to feel the rough sand still stuck between my toes.  The sand followed me into my home, it came into the kitchen, making advances when my back was turned. In a few days, the grains multiplied until the sand seemed to leak from beneath the floor mats of my rental sedan.  I tried to shake the ocean soil out from my life, but small piles like miniature dunes appeared on my bathroom counter. Finally, at the end of a week, as I slid under the grit of my bed sheets and fell asleep, I gave in and accepted the sand.  

Florida’s sand made this gnome think of the strange things we become accustom to as we move and travel.  In Florida, the sand became a part of my life. Back at home, in the garden, it was the constant watering, and insect control.  When my journey took me to New York, I was forced to confront the buildings, the crowds, and the challenge of navigating and transporting myself around the city, but I also faced the attitude : the palpable ambition that wakes you up in the morning, the constant competition that measures you as you walk outside, and the hustle that keeps you sleeping less and less. I can not wash New York away with a hose, or shake it out by banging on the heel.