Six years ago today, I landed on Portland’s rain-soaked doorstep with as many of my belongings (mostly books) as I could cram into two cars. Since then, I’ve moved three times and watched the cityscape change dramatically. I’ve thought about leaving. I’ve thought about staying. I’ve thought about how much I, too, have changed in these six tumultuous, topsy-turvy years. When I woke up today, the rain was falling hard for the first time in months, and I thought about how I ran that first day from my car to my new apartment, trying so hard not to get wet. I still carry an umbrella (like a good Californian), but I’ve come to enjoy the days when the world is wet and gray, when I can go for a run on sopping asphalt, then curl up by the window with a blanket and write. And as many times as I’ve contemplated moving away, something seems to keep me tethered to this tree-filled corner of the planet, and while I don’t know what it is exactly, it’s enough to make me certain I’m where I’m supposed to be.