Moving to an Island in Maine

Last Friday, I moved from Brooklyn to a little island in Maine.

This time of year, there are about 900 residents here. Walking the roads of the island, you smell wood stoves and, if the breeze is right, pine sap. There’s one restaurant open for dinner some nights and the Atlantic everywhere you turn.

I am Maine, born and raised. I moved away after high school, but a piece of my heart stayed put in the state.

Elsewhere, my heart was alive and warm. In New York with its brilliant, brave subway musicians and people and street food from every place under the sun.

Or before that, DC with her wide, wide avenues and narrow, narrow row houses filled with some of the smartest people I’d ever met.

This summer and fall, I traveled a bunch giving Lightning Notes workshops. And I traveled to the point where it didn’t make sense to be paying Brooklyn prices, but barely living in Brooklyn. Well, I thought, give Maine a try.

And here I am, on a little sliver of heaven in the Portland harbor. That piece of my heart that never left is beating full and well.

Do I miss Brooklyn? Of course. Do I miss DC? Yes.

But I am realizing one of the great privileges of being human: we can love many different things for many different reasons.

And when one love lights up, another doesn’t have to go out. Our hearts are huge enough to hold all the things we love without discarding any. In fact, I think having all these divergent loves helps make us whole.

So, here’s to little islands and great big cities and all the loves we don’t discard.

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