I packed up my life into cardboard boxes and loaded everything into a rented moving van. Sitting in front of the house, my home, on that cool first day of autumn and looking upon the oak tree in the yard, knowing that I owned the house that sat behind it, and the earth that had its roots twisted deep below, was a pivotal moment in my life. It would take me a couple of months to find out that I had it completely wrong. I thought I had picked out the house, that I owned it. Instead, I had been picked. It was the house that owned me.