I am walking near my new home, and like many years ago, before being forced into the city, I can hear my footfalls on the earthen path. There is no longer that constant city hum that was omnipresent. There are bird calls now audible that have been long forgotten. At the water's edge is the sound of a gentle lapping of the sea on the sand. Out in the bay, almost obscured by the bright reflections of the sun, is a lone paddle boarder, just below the Olympic Mountains, that rises on the other side of the strait. Along the beach, solitary figures sit basking in the morning's warmth. Some were drinking coffee, others in lawn chairs, deep in contemplation. Here, are we not home? Here, we can tie a swing to a limb that pushes out over the water. Here, we dream in timelessness. Here, we ground ourselves.