This is the fourth state I’ve lived in this year. That may sound lonely to some, constantly moving, never putting down roots long enough to watch them take hold. And it can be. I once lived in a place for six months where it felt like I was constantly holding my breath, for if I were to exhale, those around me would realize my existence and send me home. On the other hand, I’ve lived in places for two weeks and have made friends for life. Friends that my kids will call auntie, friends that I’d entrust my secrets to, and friends I’d like to grow old with, climbing mountains until our bones get frail, and arguing until we have no more breath. Moving so much has a funny way of clarifying who’s meant to stay.
That’s what this move has felt like. I flew into Burlington on January 10th. I landed sick as a dog, slept on my best friend’s floor for two days, taking naps only to wake up to videos of myself open-mouth breathing. I packed my things into my new car, Henry, a crusty Mazda with a sticker that says, “Home is where you park it” and drove to my new home. There’s something humbling about putting your entire life into a car that has the key held together with zip ties.
I loved the drive. I loved getting off the four-lane highway and snaking through small towns, with family-owned shops advertised with hand-painted wooden signs. I loved looking out my window to see the porcelain landscape that’s laid down with each new storm, fences half-swallowed, tree branches bowed under the weight. But most of all, I loved feeling my life slow down. Not stall. Not fall behind. Just… slow.
Arriving in Holderness was daunting. The nerves, questions, and anticipation I’d spent months building in my head were finally coming to an end. To be fair, deciding to move in with nine strangers and collaborate with them every day probably sounds crazy to most people. It sounded a little crazy to me. You start asking yourself many important questions. Will my colleagues think I’m funny? Are they funny? Do they do their dishes? And most importantly, do any of them snore like a freight train barreling through the night?
In retrospect, I had nothing to worry about. This group of people are some of the kindest, hardest working individuals I have ever met. I think that’s common with Americorp. A program where you pick up your life, move in with strangers, and devote yourself to serving your community attracts a certain type of person. My fellow members care deeply. They shovel without complaining, okay with minimal complaining, okay, we complain a lot. But the point is, it always gets done, and it gets done well.
In retrospect, I had nothing to worry about. This group of people are some of the kindest, hardest working individuals I have ever met. I think that’s common with Americorp. A program where you pick up your life, move in with strangers, and devote yourself to serving your community attracts a certain type of person. My fellow members care deeply. They shovel without complaining, okay with minimal complaining, okay, we complain a lot. But the point is, it always gets done, and it gets done well.
Another big change for me was the area itself. Although I’ve been living primarily on the East Coast for four years now, winter doesn’t cease to take my breath away. Sometimes, because the frigid air is so piercing, it’s painful, or because the wind whips past my lips at remarkable speeds and makes my eyes water instantly. But mostly, it’s because of the pure beauty it holds. I feel so lucky to be here in Holderness, living directly next to Squam.
Although I grew up in a city, my mom always encouraged time spent outside, to the extent that she was genuinely excited when we got muddy and came up to her holding a slimy critter. I think she would have been happy if I ate dirt. Even so, living in a city full of startups and entrepreneurs, I was conditioned to move quickly. Taking a moment to breathe was inefficient, indulgent, maybe even irresponsible.
I think that’s the biggest lesson winter here, in a small town, has taught me: It’s okay to slow down.
Today is a quiet Saturday; only five of us are in the office. I’ve chosen a cozy seat next to a massive window, which looks out at an iced-over Squam with mountains rising steadily in the background. The lake looks solid enough to hold secrets. Maybe also a tank. Snow rests heavy on the pines along the shoreline. It looks fake with how picturesque it is.
It’s been a little over a month, and we’ve all grown very close. We bicker like siblings, much to the dismay of those around us, and we moan about shoveling snow for what feels like the millionth hour, our boots permanently stationed by the door. We debate thermostat settings like it’s a moral issue. But no matter the challenges, at the end of our days, we all come together for what we’ve deemed “family dinners”. Someone cooks, we yell at them if they try to clean, and inevitably something gets lost in the fridge, because that’s what happens when you live with ten people.
And to answer those initial questions I had: I think so, I’m constantly laughing, thankfully yes, and lastly, there is one, but luckily we sleep on different floors and I sleep sounder than I have in a while.
A baby moose found 20 minutes north of Squam
Macie is serving with the Squam Lakes Association as an Education and Outreach Assistant. She recently graduated from SUNY College of Environmental Science and Forestry with a degree in environmental biology. She loves hiking, rock climbing, and a good sunset. When she's not outside, you can find her under a cozy blanket reading or crafting. Learn more about Macie here.