This writing finds me looking out over the Vale of Porlock in Somerset, England, cheese and pickle sandwich in one hand, pen in the other. Surely, Paradise on Earth? Wait. One more ingredient before it’s perfect: no expectations.

I don’t have anywhere to be. No one, and nothing, is waiting for me. Anywhere. Anywhere in the world. Family is a continent away, doing what grownups do when independent of their mother or spouse. They are ever present in the heart, but, for now, their needs are their own. Friends don’t expect me back at any particular time. No rain to chase me away from this bench or act as time keeper. No hunger or thirst. No pain. And no hireth, that longing for home I sense so much of my time. That hireth that has me looking at a lovely view, wherever I happen to be in the world, but picturing somewhere else. Because today, I’m in that somewhere else. This sense of … what? Equilibrium? Contentment? Stasis? It’s momentarily strange. It takes a while to settle and accept it.

My novel, Dunster’s Calling, contemplates the premise that life is but a journey to find “home.” Well, in this moment, I’ve found it. Quiet. Internal and external quiet. I like it. Does it matter that I can’t find a word for it? Just enjoy it, Tracey. And wish the same for others.