I moved to Portland just nine months ago, with no particular reason for doing so. And in those nine months, I've found myself to be very happy in this little space. I've done the usual friend-making, job-finding, scene-setting, house-building, and all the other various projects which are required in a new city. I even made it through a Portland winter, which, as a transplanted Midwesterner-by-way-of-East-Coast, was surprisingly easy to deal with. In fact, I find that I'm more affected by the weather this spring than I was all winter.

There is something about Portland that I still can't quite put my finger on. Something in the way that the trees breathe, or in the blatant West Coast hope of most people I meet here. It's probably a good place for me. But lately I've been wondering just what motivated me to move out here.

Last spring was probably the most awful time in my life. Not only was I toward the end of suffering through a long and black bout of depression during which I committed all sorts of wrongs in all sorts of ways, but I added to that the grandiose moment of graduating from my small-town liberal arts college which carried with it everything you might imagine: leaving the comforting confines of the classroom; parting ways with several very close friends and even more casual acquaintences; trying to assess the idea of "Life In The Real World"; worrying about money; etc....you get the idea.