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…I drove out of Nashville. And I camped in North Carolina.

Then I visited a friend and had breakfast. Then I kept driving till I found the ocean.

And I splashed in the water and read on the beach. And I practiced being still. And I wasn’t completely sure what came next.

I drove to New York and disappeared in the Catskills for a few days. I emerged covered in bug bites (one was particularly concerning), but completely taken in by the mountains I found that were so different from the mountains that I knew.

And I kept driving.

I drove to Maine where I learned about grains and bread and natural leavening agents. For the first (and only) time in my life, I was surrounded by people who nerded out about baking more than I did. And it was magical.

I lost myself in Maine…in the food and drinks and lighthouses of Portland…in the mountains of Acadia…in the blueberries. I didn’t know what came next.

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I made some weird choices and eventually found myself in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I lived in a little cabin with other humans and spent most waking hours with other humans. But on the weekends, I found myself in those mountains and I was, again, completely taken in by mountains that were different from all of the mountains I had ever known.

For ten weeks? Eight week? I can’t keep track. It was magical. I grew in my ability to be flexible and think on my toes and I learned to work with kids who were unlike any I had ever known. And I didn’t know what came next.

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So I wandered again. I went to Vermont because, well, mountains. While avoiding the freak snowstorm (from my “southern” eyes), I randomly looked up jobs in the area and tossed out a few applications. I hiked one of the 4000 footers in Vermont, then here was a quick trip to Montreal and I scheduled a job interview. In between waiting and panicking, I hiked two more 4000 footers. Then I interviewed for a job and hiked the last two 4000 footers. But I didn’t know what came next.

So I went to North Carolina. Breakfast and coffee and lunch and good company. Then to Nashville. Being in the place that I had called “home” for six years was soothing and safe. And in the midst of pouring over some nonprofit work while sitting in a coffee shop (Red Bicycle in Germantown) one morning, my phone rang and I was offered the job in Vermont. And I didn’t know what came next.

Nashville life. Holidays in Arkansas. And then a 23 hour drive to Vermont.

A job with some of the goofiest kids I’ve ever met. Days outside with those kids…in the snow, the sun, the rain and everything in between. Talking about letters and sharing my favorite books. Occasionally making up my own stories, but mostly letting kids tell me their own. And then a pandemic. A crazy roommate. Mud season. And I didn’t know what came next.

Moving into my own space. Getting a cat. Chopping off my hair. Melting snow and the end of mud season. Discovering how 4000 footers look when the snow is gone and everything is blooming. Figuring out how sourdough and I can live in harmony. Learning how to teach in the midst of a pandemic and how to offer grace to everyone I meet (including myself).

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And to think that a year ago, I drove out of Nashville.

I could measure this past year in pies baked (in 6 different states??) or mountains climbed (40-50 trails) or cups of coffee (there were 10 on Moosilauke…but we really shouldn’t talk about that) or miles driven (gulp) or times I slept in my car (zero, actually) or the weird recipes I’ve tried (too many to count) or the walls I’ve climbed.

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But those things don’t actually matter.

The ways I’ve grown and what I’ve learned about myself. The relationships I’ve maintained from so stinking far away and those that I’ve built along the way. The times I’ve opened myself up to opportunities that scared me and walked away knowing that I am stronger than I imagined. The figurative mountains I have climbed to come to understand my passions, my boundaries, and my priorities.

That’s how I prefer to measure a year.