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One morning you find yourself at the farmer’s market in Portland’s red-brick Monument Square. You see honey from the nearby town of Hollis, blueberry jam from Buckfield, eggs from Unity. A handsome farmer with a beard and strange, yellow-blue eyes is selling baby arugula and bok choy. You ask this reserved man about his livelihood and he tells you, “This is the best life I could imagine. I am doing exactly what I want to be doing.”

You stop and allow this to percolate. Let me get this straight, you say to yourself. The best life I could imagine.…

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