I live in this beautiful place where on a Wednesday evening it is possible to eat dinner lazily and then unchain the bicycles, carry them down the deck and ride from one end of town to the other and then out past town, past a haying field, along the water and the shadow of the mountains where you can pedal hard and fast and you can fly until it is time to stop for an ice cream and a hello to friends from town.

I live in this beautiful place where last Friday evening we threw down a blanket in the park and listened to Counting Crows play over in Memorial Field, sprawled on our backs, staring up, up, up at the trees and the stars and the bats, laughing over the night before and the lady with the voice like a chainsaw who rasped and rattled on and on about her dogs and her bicycle and her weight while Pink Martini cut the air with songs and languages and humanity.

I live in this place that is beautiful because just this morning after I rolled over and smiled at him, I was able to slip out of bed, tie on my runners and meet a friend for a run on the trail that smelled of pine and grass and earth and then after the run, a shower and a walk through the downtown for a coffee and a slow stretch.

I live here, where I am far from home and not as well known, where my days are long and then short and never the same, and where, if I wanted, I could stay in bed for the day and maybe nobody would ever know.  But I want to really live here, in this beautiful place.

And so I am trying.