I moved from southern California to western Massachusetts last summer. Nine months and one ridiculous winter later, I’m only just now ready to begin some public reflections on what exactly it is that I’m doing here.

Three hours north of here, on an idyllic lake in central New Hampshire, there’s a cabin on an island that’s been in my family for close to 100 years. Growing up I always imagined myself living nearby—close enough so that every summer I could immerse myself in the smell of the pines, the taste of the wild blueberries, the calls of the loons on the lake, sunsets on the porch, silent rides in the old canoe and the house full of memories.

It’s a beautiful vision, but can it really become my reality when everyone and everything else I know and love is 3,000 miles in the other direction? It’s going to take some time to figure that out. I intend to do some figuring here.

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