Well, friends, I finally did it.
When I wake up this morning and look out over the snow-dusted valley, when I step outside in the brisk air to walk Luna, when I head to the pub for a glass of wine at the end of the day, I do it all with the knowledge that I live here.
I officially live in my favorite place in the world. A place where I’ve been told over and over and over again how impossibly hard it is to get a visa. A place where I don’t know any other Americans. A place that most people wouldn’t even try to get a visa for.
And yet, I live here.
Which just goes to show you how you should always try, even if everyone thinks your chances are slim to none.
The only way to know what your chances are is to put yourself out there. To chance failure. Hell, not just chance it: stare it in its pretty little face and stick out your tongue. Because failure is just a ghost of a thing anyway. It’s not as scary as it seems.
And so my life shifts, as life so often does, from something challenging to something celebratory. Because two days ago, my injured shoulder felt so good that I threw myself a spontaneous dance party. And yesterday I moved into a quiet, top-floor guesthouse room with a view of the snowy valley, where the mornings are utterly silent. And most of all because I really, truly live here, a resident of the valley that inspired Rivendell.
I think I’ll go out and hug the trees.
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