Some days, Philadelphia is remarkably lovely.

Cheese to pair with jam. Plotting and planning an assortment of flavors to pair with these puppies.

Dusk. We went to look at the kittens in the window of the pet shop on 20th Street before getting a treat at Capogiro gelato.

A handful of cherry tomatoes, grown on my living room floor in my hand Aerogarden. It’s not a backyard, but it’s better than nothing.

Gorgeous shiro plums. I’ve made these into jams three different ways (with rosewater, vanilla and plain).

A canning demonstration at Linvilla Orchards. I made peach salsa and then Scott and I had ice cream cones. Not a bad day.

Lunch on my first full day of unemployment. The salad was good and I’m still feeling shockingly upbeat about the changes that have been thrust upon me. There is the occasional wave of anger and loss, but I’m swimming, not sinking. All is well and all will continue to be well.

I keep trying to find a eloquent way to start out his post. A way to describe my day that contains an element of poetry. However, those words escape me most entirely at the moment. So here’s the truth.

I got laid off from my job today.

I really thought that Tuesday’s trip and fall was going to be the shock of the week. It had helped me find new space inside of myself so thoroughly that I thought that was the shift I’ve been needing.

What’s particularly nutty is that when I got to work on Wednesday, I felt better about the place than I’d felt in years. I’ve spent so much of my employment there resisting it, fighting against is, not wanting to be there, that to have finally found some measure of peace about the place was a true joy.

And then, today. When my supervisor first starting explaining to me the fact that I was being let go, it didn’t register. It was the first time I was released from a primary job (I’ve lost freelance gigs, but that’s a whole other barrel of fish) and so I didn’t comprehend it.

There were more than a few tears (the wracking kind that made the men in the room want to run and hide) and it took me several minutes to bring my splintered propriety back under control.

I went back to my desk. I forwarded pending emails to other people. I erased the few personal files from my computer. I made sure that other members of my team had access to the site I managed. I packed three reusable grocery bags full of shoes, coffee cups and pens. I hugged people and I left.

Now here’s the good part. Once home and faced with an empty day, I started to feel happy. I might even go so far as to say that a hint of jubilant giddiness crept in. I told Twitter that I’d been let go and the love from friends and acquaintances rolled in. In the matter of three hours, I had four possibilities for freelance work on the table.

Before today, I assumed that when I left my job for good, it would be on my own terms. Instead, my hand was forced. Amazingly, it feels like nothing more than a giant gift. I’ve been saying that I was ready for the change. Well here it is.

(If you’re wondering why the photo of the day is a bag of potato chips, the truth is that I’m not an entirely perfect or virtuous human. When faced with this loss, I turned to the bag of potato chips that I had been saving for our upcoming vacation for a taste of edible comfort. Thank you Kettle Chips, for being there for me in my time of need.)

Cookbooks waiting to be used, written about, loved.

Summers in Philadelphia are weighted with nostalgia for me. I spent at least three weeks of either June, July or August from 1979 to 1990 in this city visiting my grandma Tutu and her husband Sid. My mom was always with me and my sister joined our party in 1982.

The heat, humidity and scents of the streets of this city are engraved into my earliest memories. The fragrance of a cheesesteak cooking in a food truck is enough to slam me back two decades, to the time when I was all of two and a half feet tall and happily jogged next to my mom down Chestnut Street in my Strawberry Shortcake sneakers.

I took this photo in the moments after being walloped by a wave of remembrance, triggered by the hubbub at the corner of 18th and Walnut, and the food cart that’s been there as long as I’ve been alive. It smelled like griddled meat, boiled hot dogs and steamy sauerkraut.

Two minutes later, after shooting this image, I was walking up 18th Street and tripped on an uneven patch of sidewalk. I fell into one of those windmilling, staggering falls where time slowed down. I thought I might just be able to recover but instead when crashing to the sidewalk. I landed on my left knee and scraped up the palms of my hands but good.

An older woman in a Chanel suit stopped to help me up and stood there to make sure I could walk (I’ve done the very same thing for a stranger in the past). Once I could assure her that I was going to be okay, she left me. I limped to Sue’s Produce to finish my errands before heading home, all the while holding back sobs.

Those tears weren’t even because I was particularly hurt but because I’ve been in need of a release. When I got home, I wept. Huge, chest heaving, world ending wails. I’ve been out of touch, out of contact with myself and totally wracked with unspecified anxiety. I didn’t realize it, but a moment in connection with my past coupled with a big shock was exactly what I needed.

My knee is a little sore, but really fine. And my heart feels lighter than it has in months.