Following the Green Lights.
Updated: Sep 1
9/7/2026
Written by Lindsey Graser
I've lived in New York my whole life—with one exception.
For three brief months in 1997, I lived in North Carolina.
I enrolled in college, quickly realized it wasn't the right fit, withdrew after just a few weeks, and moved in with my brother in Durham before eventually starting back in Western New York.
While I was there, I picked up a couple of jobs. One involved sitting in a basement scrolling through microfiche machines, searching for death dates to process insurance claims. I also worked as a host at a diner, hoping I’d find people to hang out with after work.
That didn't happen.
I wasn't sure what the college experience was supposed to be, but this definitely wasn't it. I was in between chapters of my life, unsure of where I belonged or what came next.
But one thing did.
One evening, my brother and I signed up for a moonlight paddle on the Eno River.
At the time, I had no idea that one experience would quietly stay with me for nearly thirty years.
Years later, back in New York, I bought my first kayak and nervously showed up for a full moon paddle on Canadice Lake.
It felt like the middle of nowhere. It felt like home.
There was no one there I knew. Just a group of strangers gathering under the moon.
That night opened a door.
This summer, I worked with Canadice Lake Outfitters, guiding restorative paddles on Sunday mornings. It was a wonderful experience—meeting people, offering coffee and a light bite from the back of my car, and then settling into the water.
Find your rhythm. Let the water carry you.
Knowing I could stay afloat, with billions of gallons of water holding me up, felt comforting. Because for the past year and a half, those billion gallons had felt like they were sitting on my chest—a year of profound loss, sadness, and fear for what Charlie was going through medically.
But something else happened out there.
I realized I wasn't alone.
I wasn't the only one carrying some heavy stuff. People shared stories of resilience and courage. One person had only recently learned to swim—and now here they were, paddling across the lake. Others carried stories I knew only pieces of. And I was grateful to provide a place where people could bring whatever they were carrying—and maybe leave a little of it behind in those still waters.
Then there was a moonlight paddle on Canadice Lake.
That summer, I was learning something about the people who appear in our lives at exactly the right moment.
Sometimes they are people we've known forever. Sometimes they're complete strangers. Sometimes they don't have answers. They don't fix anything. They simply show up and somehow understand what we need in that moment.
A green light.
We paddled that night, with Charlie.
He was terrified of large bodies of water and said he would never paddle on a lake.
Then, that he'd never paddle at night.
Then, that he'd never paddle on a lake at night unless I stayed right beside him.
So I did.
Until I looked over and realized he'd quietly drifted into the middle of the lake on his own.
He was just there, taking it all in—and capturing the most breathtaking view I've ever seen of Canadice Lake at night.
Later, he told me it was one of the best experiences of his life.
Now we're standing in another in-between season.
We're moving back to Durham.
This time, it's for Charlie's medical care through the VA and Duke. I don't have a job lined up. We don't have a long-term plan beyond following what feels like the next right step.
We will have a Jeep packed with the things that matter most. Two suitcases filled with IV supplies. Two medical appointments for Charlie. One for me.
Recently, I introduced us on a Durham community Facebook page.
I wrote:
My husband and I are moving from New York to Durham for medical care through the VA. We are artists and caregivers, looking for creative spaces to connect, places to sell handcrafted goods, and flexible part-time work where we can give back to the community. We respect the heart of the city and are excited to call Durham home.
The response caught me completely off guard.
People welcomed us.
They shared favorite art venues, makers markets, and places they thought we'd love. Complete strangers made Durham feel a little smaller and a little warmer before we'd even arrived.
One woman wrote about a place called Josh's Hope.
Really, Josh's Hope?
Could it be a sign from the wings of my friend Josh?
History will come with us. Some of it is beautiful. Some of it is painful. It has shaped us, but it doesn't have to decide what comes next.
We get to decide what we are carrying.
And what we are leaving.
I'm learning that hope doesn't always arrive as a grand plan.
Sometimes it shows up as a float down the riverr at night A kayak under a full moon. A kind comment from a stranger. A place called Josh's Hope.
I'm paying attention to the green lights.
In fact, during the times I've felt most lost over the last couple of years, I've asked the people I felt safest with to leave a green candle in their window. Like a soldier coming home from war, I needed to see that light and know there was still a place for us to land—that the light was on for Charlie and me, too. Especially during those long hospital stays.
Maybe that's what the green lights have always meant to me. Not that I know exactly where they'll lead, but that there's something ahead worth moving toward. Something that feels honest. Something that feels peaceful.
Something that feels like home.
Written by Lindsey Graser
August 2026, in Rochester, NY
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