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How strange it feels to come to a new city, to live in it, to become a part of it, to be a local. I’ve moved a few times in my life, but have always pined and wished to return to my hometown, the smell of the air, knowledge of the seasons, a sense of homesickness even in my later years.

Not this time, not this move for some reason.

I’ve tried to pinpoint why this move is different, while working in my yard, planting my garden with only the wind and clouds as my friends. Is it the endless quietness, the peace of only hills and grass around me.

The sky is so close, so much closer than my hometown. I feel like my head is close to bumping on it.

I’m learning the new smell of air, the patterns of my neighbors in this rural neighborhood, the peace and violence our weather brings at any given time. The space here is remarkable. Finally a place to breathe without someone inhaling you exhales.

And birds, lots of birds. Having a covey of quail calling your backyard their refuge is very grounding, a sense of purpose I have each day. To watch them, their antics, their patterns, their constant curiosity as to what I have done in the yard that day. I don’t need expensive therapy, only a cup of tea and some time by the window to watch them run in my lawn and interact with this place they call safe, I call my backyard.