I have been living at my apartment on School Street for around eighteen years. It has provided a sense of security, a feeling of familiarity and neighborhood that I really liked. I developed the habit of walking to my health club when I wanted to sweat, Whole Foods when I wanted to eat something fresh, or Hamlin Park when I longed for the satisfying summer entertainment of watching little leaguers and grown-up boys don their local pizza parlor sponsored uniforms to play baseball. I had eased into paying a fairly manageable monthly rent, which I never discounted as a blessing, and, while not best buddies, I always felt I could count on my upstairs neighbors in an emergency.

But over the past six months to a year, I was getting the feeling that my karma here was over. My landlady became vocal in objecting to certain visitors I had over; work to repair my upstairs neighbor’s pipes, requiring tearing apart my ceiling in a few places, was scheduled without advanced notice; and when I tried to rent half of the unused garage behind my building to store my new car, I was turned down with no explanation.

I had been planning on moving for a while, ideally to a building I could purchase and make a permanent home, but I was hoping this move would be on my timetable. Yet, here I was heading into winter with a very concrete goal of finding a new place to live within a couple weeks; one that was in a safe neighborhood and close to public transportation, a place that was roomy enough to set up a desk for what had become a predominantly work-at-home lifestyle, and a place where I could pay about the same rent as I had been paying for my deal on School Street. Oh yes, and it had to have a garage, a covered, off-street parking place for Freyla, the name I had given my new VW Jetta.

I poured over craigslist posts and contacted numerous property management companies, not to mention Apartment Hunters, Apartment People and just about every apartment locating outfit I could find.

The short timetable made the search discouraging. There are simply not as many rental properties in Chicago with December 1st leases as there are with May 1st or October 1st leases. I was anticipating having to settle in some fundamental way after setting an intention where settling was no longer an option. Too often, though, apartments with garage spaces were in elevator buildings and were tiny and without character.

Just over a week ago, after visiting a variety of elevator buildings with shoebox-sized apartments with $150 a month garage rent, I found a craigslist post for a large, sunny apartment in a 2-flat with hardwood floors and a two-car garage behind the building. They wanted to rent it for November 1st and had obviously gone past the date. It was in a neighborhood I was not very familiar with; a few blocks of two-flats and Chicago style brick bungalows flanked by 100 year-old elms, only steps away from the exclusive Ravenswood Manor area.

After pacing the length of the unit several times, looking for flaws and finding few things I could complain about, I started imagining filling the second bedroom with my office essentials and the pantry with my beloved red Rival crock pot and Jack LaLanne power juicer. I asked for a lease application and took a walk around what I hoped would become my new neighborhood.

I had forgotten that the north branch of the Chicago River runs just a few blocks east of Mozart Street. There’s a narrow strip of houses in Chicago that are situated with their yards right up against the river. Many of these houses have small boats tied up to little wooden piers only steps from their back doors. Others have incredible gardens, nestled away undisturbed by virtue of their location.

I walked to Wilson Avenue, which connects Ravenswood Manor to the more active area of Lincoln Square. I stood on the bridge there for a while meditating on the tree branches, recently freed of their golden leaves by early November winds, and I looked in both directions, at the boats in the water, at the changing width of the river, at the trees and yards and houses that ran along its banks, at other bridges I could see in the distance. I relished the scene’s sort of moodiness – and my own sense of surprise. I found a new place to live at a very challenging time of year, in a location that feels like being out in the country but is only one block from the Montrose bus. Only a few blocks from the river.

I felt lucky, but I also wanted to acknowledge myself for taking up a challenge life presented me. If I didn’t feel I had to move now, I wouldn’t have gone looking for a new home and neighborhood. If I wasn’t willing to risk the security I knew, I would not have discovered this hidden corner of nature in the city, this place where change and constancy seemed to get along so well.

Discovering your secret river is no small thing.