A Decade
By Amy Lowell

When you came, you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like morning bread,
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,
But I am completely nourished.

Amy Lowell’s short poem, A Decade, captures the evolution of love — the way passion’s first sweetness can mellow into something sustaining, quiet, and sure. What begins as fire becomes nourishment; what once thrilled the senses becomes something that feeds the soul.

Today marks ten years since I moved to Vermont, and I can’t think of a better poem to mark the occasion. When I first arrived here, everything felt intoxicating — the crisp air, the mountains, the openness, and the sense of possibility. It was all red wine and honey to me. After years in Alabama, where life could feel restrictive and closeted, Vermont’s freedom and acceptance were a revelation. I felt like I could finally breathe. Over time, that sense of wonder has become something steadier and deeper — morning bread, as Lowell writes — familiar and sustaining, but no less meaningful.

In some ways, Vermont and Alabama are opposites — politically, culturally, even spiritually. Yet both share a rural heartbeat: farming, hard work, and community. The difference lies in what those values are used to nurture. In Vermont, I found a place that allows people to live authentically. It’s where I began to heal, to come out of my shell, and to rediscover the rhythm of a quieter, freer life.

Of course, not all of these ten years have been easy. I lost one of my closest friends not long after moving here, and the grief nearly consumed me. The depression that followed was heavy and persistent, and therapy, rather than helping, only seemed to make things worse. What truly got me through was my friendship with Susan — her kindness, her patience, her ability to listen when I couldn’t even find the words to explain the ache inside. She helped me remember that love and friendship don’t end with loss; they simply take new forms in memory and gratitude.

There have been lighter moments, too — like those early days when I was still unpacking boxes and sleeping on an air mattress, and curiosity led me to open Grindr. My bed hadn’t even arrived yet, but a stranger did. We hooked up, and oddly enough, I still see him occasionally — sometimes by chance, sometimes on purpose. It was the first of many reminders that life has a way of surprising you, even when you think you’ve planned everything out.

Ten years on, Vermont feels like home. I’ve gained friends and lost a few to distance, but I’ve grown in ways that younger me — newly arrived and slightly bewildered — could never have imagined. The sweetness of new beginnings has become the nourishment of belonging.

If you’ve found a place that lets you be yourself, cherish it. Whether it’s a physical home or a state of mind, those are the spaces where we grow into who we truly are — where life becomes less about surviving and more about being completely nourished.