I live at the edge of the city, right between forests, farmland, and the busiest intersection in town.

Drive five minutes, and I could run and hike all day without seeing another soul on a weekday. On the other hand, Main Street is ten minutes away; the huge shopping mall, around five; friends live within biking distance.

Not quite the nearest-town-is-thirty-minutes-away country living I have been raised with. But not as closed-in, anonymous, and bustling as downtown, either.

Main Street is lively, though. Six denominations claim a spot for worship — Catholic at one end, the Presbyterians at the other; the Church of the Nazarene, the Baptist Church, and the United Church share the middle. There is one store dedicated to olive oil and balsamic vinegars; another to comics; another to records. (There are a lot more than three stores, but these are the coolest.) Pubs, taverns, and bars bring on a shift in atmosphere when the sun sets — characters that blink and sit around in the noonday brightness roam the town past twilight, living up the wee moments of the night on the same sidewalks business people powerwalked to lunch meetings and interviews during the day.

And ah, the people! Sit for ten minutes, an hour, six hours in the same place, watch them go by. Notice the fashions, the cultures, the groupings of people, the expressions on their faces. You begin to see trends — one-third of middle-aged women push strollers, wear jeans and beige shoes, have a messy bun, and sport some light-colored cardigan or flannel sweater. Every Asian family are either biking like they’re being graded on seriousness and order, or taking candid pictures of the old buildings many have ceased to notice. At different times of the day waves of different people go shopping — first the gray-haired population (slower, chatty, dressed plainly or flamboyantly (no in-betweens), then the stay-at-home-moms, then middle-schoolers with highschoolers at their heels…and finally the multitasking, overworked professional. Every now and then, along the sidewalk strides up a trenchcoated couple with leather loafers or leather boots, sunglasses more for vibes than shade, and the attitude of someone speedwalking down a runway they’re overqualified for.

The vibe in this town is neat — nonchalantly chic, but in a smirky, quirky sense. We have some new stuff, some old stuff, and some…stuff, just stuff. There is enough style, history, and atmosphere to feel like you are somewhere, but the vibe is not so strong as to make you feel you cannot contribute your own brushstroke onto the huge, morphing canvas.

Time on Main slips through your fingers, unless you keep your neck crooked downwards at your phone most the time. Multiple times already I bump into friends and strangers at cafés and street corners and a conversation starts — one that could take up hours, hours you meant for a deadlined assignment, for the poems brewing in your head, for being alone in a space with other vaguely-lonely introverts. It used to take planning to head to a café; now it’s a stop on the way home from church, a place to chill after checking out books from the library, a chance to meet the new barista and exchange waterbottle sticker stories.

But even for all that, I moved here to hermit. For days on end if desired, I could keep to myself in my little apartment setting seeds a-sprouting and stews a-simmering as I write, read, work, and think in solitude. Some days I emerge from being half-underground to wander the nearby forests barefoot, bathing in the sounds and textures of a living environment until mind and heart realign on desires and first principles. Smiles are exchanged with the local mushroom gatherers; people run their dogs past me and I reminisce on Rags and wonder how he’s doing; I reach a tiny knoll and wish I brought my handpan to play on for a while.

This city is where many of my core teenage memories were made: driving lessons and failed driving tests, martial arts training, weeks spent yearning after a boy who barely talked to me, the cool buildings dad used to work in, parent-child grocery shopping trips where I learned the value of efficiency, visits with other homeschool families, the local farmer’s market. It was never home to the kid version of me, but it has been a place of connection, learning, business, and growth.

And maybe, in some small subconscious way, that is why I have landed here for now. In the last month or so I’ve attended local comedy shows, a musical theatre production, visited multiple churches, and poked my head into more clinics, bars, coffee spots, and public spaces than I really had time for. I have talked with doctors, churchgoers, homeless fellows, musicians, financial advisors, climbers, and others, gathering more memories and ideas than I could fit onto a dozen index cards.

Yes, it takes time and effort to make a place feel like home, for neighbors to feel like community.

But if you don’t have time to be in and belong to a place, what do you have time for?