Today, I realized it's been a year since I defended my PhD in Modern History (accepted "as is," which is rare, might I add!).

My degree had been mailed to my parents' house, and I have not even seen it till I visited them just a couple of weeks ago. It's a strange feeling to be so calm about something that has taken five years of one's life and so much external effort in terms of outside work, excessive coffee in the wee hours of the night, and barely existent sleep.

Occasionally, I smirk when see people's eyes fade rather shamelessly--as they lose interest--when I tell them that I left the academia and the urban environment, gave up my job in the corporate world, and moved out to live in the mountains. To them, I could've had the prestige of being an overpaid government bureaucrat or the glamour of a university professor teaching a popular, yet entirely useless Postmodern field!

Yet, instead I chose to translate and edit independent books, and engage in graphic design and image-creation in the middle of nowhere (stunning though it is).

Despite the upbeat, sunny landscape, I don't know what the future could bring, nor am I an optimist. (You knew that already, because I'm Russian, and we're all brooding Dostoyevskivites through and through!)

Nonetheless, right now, a year after the fact, this seems to have been the right decision.

Perhaps, the latter explains my feeling of calm, or maybe it's just the result of another Rocky-mountain sunset.