I moved to Maine three years ago, today. We packed the last of our belongings and blew a kiss to our tiny house in Baltimore – our first home as newlyweds, where we brought our babies home from the hospital. Two years of renting, scrimping and saving, dreaming about the life just barely within our reach and loving our new state.

We celebrated a year in our forever home this past Saturday. J and I walked the property hand in hand as the girls raced ahead. We checked on each growing thing we’d planted, and marveled at our land from the top of the hill. Our children clambered along the stone walls and our chickens scratched and pecked in the weeds.

I’ve lived my whole adult life as a sprint, always looking to the next thing. And here I am, thinking in terms of years and seasons, marking growth and life and making long-term plans. We’ve only painted two rooms, and have no curtains hung on the first floor, but it’s alright. What a gift to be so settled.