All along I had imagined that Maine would be a place of isolation for me. But I had actually found a hive to transplant myself into, an island humming with activity.
A family of seven, plus me. Life was suddenly loud and bustling, urban commotion in a rural landscape. Everyone nosing into everyone else’s business. Babies crying, teenage drama, adult disagreements. And so much love wrapped around every action, every word, that each moment I witnessed felt like a gift. I rarely missed an opportunity to join them at the dinner table.
Life was big, and loud, and wonderful. But it was a challenge, living in such a different way. In fact, it was exhausting. So that’s why I felt a pull towards the desert – a place to rest my mind, body, ears.
I knew where I wanted to go, I had been there earlier in the year during a solo road trip I took after quitting my desk job. I remembered my campsite nestled against the base of the mountains and my view as I cooked a simple dinner over an open flame, the sun settling into the earth behind a neighboring mountain range. That was where I planned to live and write for a month this winter.
Then I met The Collector, and my plans changed abruptly.