I'm writing more on principle than anything else, partly to stave off boredom and attempt to do something more creative and useful than I might otherwise be doing.

Life has settled into a pretty quiet and steady rhythm. I realized the other day that for the first time in years, I feel at home where I am living. I like my house and I like being here, feel comfortable and spread out, like I own the place, don't feel a need to hide away or to be out as much as possible. That's a new thing and I'm enjoying it.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I hate the cold. The onset of winter invariably has me grumbling profusely, hiding inside, and piling on ridiculous numbers of thermal layers before heading outside at all.

Just a few years ago, the idea of actually running outside in winter weather would have had me shivering and horrified. Actually, the idea of running at all would have had the same effect.

It’s Thanksgiving in America, though for this American in Toronto, there’s no celebration. Canadian Thanksgiving happened, as always, on the second Monday in October, a day which Americans may or may not remember is Columbus Day.

However, I have a reason to be deeply thankful this year. Probably more than one reason, but certainly one. Yesterday marked the purchase of my first, very own digital SLR, the realization of years of hoping and futile dreaming and being almost certain that I’d never be able to afford one. In truth, I couldn’t. But thanks to some very kind friends who realize that I am not quite a whole person without a camera, the dream has become a reality.

One of the first things I noticed when I moved to New Hampshire was the startling friendliness of other runners. Among my top priorities after moving to each new area (and I lived in five distinct ones, but that's another story) was to scope out jogging routes.

Jogging has been a consistent in my life for the past three years, a routine priority engaged in to maintain both physical and mental health. Runners will know what I'm talking about. I'd as soon think of giving up my three- or four-times weekly runs as I'd think of giving up brushing my teeth.

Last night, I walked the three miles or so downtown to meet friends for dinner. The strong wind pushed at my back, impelling me on. Leaves rushed by, swirled around my feet, and scattered across the road like celebratory confetti. The sky above was a moody white-gray, smudged with darker gray. As I walked, a wet darkness crept over the city and headlights bloomed.

Yesterday my housemate and I walked to Sunday evening meeting. Yes, it's three miles from our house, but we felt like some exercise. Sometimes I get tired of the TTC, and driving in the city is an exercise in aggravation.

As we came to a particular intersection, we heard a man shouting. Clusters of people were gathered round the street corners staring. We pinpointed the source of the noise, a basement door entrance set below the sidewalk, guarded by a metal fence. A disheveled man was screaming over and over, "Aah! Aah! Aah! Call the police! Call 911!"

Life hasn't included much time for blogging recently, or anything else nonessential: I've been rushing around like the proverbial decapitated barnyard fowl, but hopefully accomplishing something more than he does in the process.

Importing my car to Canada has turned out to be a royal, and very expensive, pain. Thus far it's included hefty fees, lots of paperwork, many phone calls, rushing around to various offices and dealerships, and one large stress headache. However, the process seems to be moving along, with the federal inspection form released today. Now I just have to get the car inspected, modded to meet Canadian safety standards (which I expect to involve several more hefty fees), and then, hopefully, somewhere at the end of the process, sold for enough to make this whole sordid thing worthwhile. In theory.

My friend Lynette and I went out the other night for a drink. We were happily strolling along a downtown street, catching up on the news from the two years since we've seen each other, when we came across a very busy scene.

Heavy cables were strung across the sidewalk and big lights were set up at strategic points. A firetruck was parked by the curb with its lights flashing, and the sidewalk was blocked. We had to navigate around the firetruck and cross the street to continue on our way.

As we did so, we gasped in astonishment. Parked on the other side of the firetruck, on the corner of a major intersection, was the blackened hulk of a burned-out bus. The body and even the frame had been blown apart and the windows were gone. Most of the bus was open to the sky. It looked as if it had been bombed. "Road closed" signs and barriers blocked the street and a policeman was directing traffic.

It's the night of my move to Canada. I'm back in my city. I'm driving to my new house, someplace I've never seen or visited, much too late, in the dark and the rain with a car loaded full of my stuff. Somewhere out there is a house with three roommates who've promised to help me move it all in.

I'm numbly tired; up at 4 am, traveling for 13-plus hours, worn from the stress of the border crossing. The intersections slide past: Jarvis. Church. Yonge. Bay. Avenue. Spadina.

So, I'm back in the city where I lived for six years, and I am absolutely loving it. I had no idea how I'd take it, how I'd feel, before I moved, but I am so very thankful to be back.

People always used to ask me the differences between Canada and America, and I didn't know what to tell them. I'd lived in Canada for so long, and been so young when I moved, that I'd kind of forgotten what America was like. Then, when I moved back to America, I only had the shock of what was different about the States. Now that I've moved back again, I have a somewhat clearer perspective.