It’s a cold day in Bellingham, when you awaken to nearly a foot of snow which had fallen the night before. When so accustomed to a palette of forest greens, earthen browns, and flowing blues, the luminance of a fresh, white blanket frames home in a new light. From your windows, a new world beckons. Through your front door, novelty begins.

It’s an exercise for the senses, to notice home in a new way. The crunch under foot or tire, the glide of a ski on a path normally reserved for a light jog or a stroll while talking to your mom on the phone. The silly little moments that you can have just for the sake of having, without the need to ascribe grandeur to them.

It’s already baked in.

The warmth of togetherness, shared through an open greeting when a cautious catching of the eye and curt nod may have filled the space between otherwise.

And then the quiet. A peace on the streets without the frenzied movement of needing to get somewhere else. A safety in not needing to look over the shoulder, to claim some space for the human level, with dominion by legs and muscle power.

To amble through, effortlessly perusing, even with the blocky, uneven steps. To feel anew in old haunts. Finding amusement in the varied tracks and grooves, a staccato coalescing of rhythms of those all around, that eventually, brings you right back to where you started, in some ways but not all.

Of course, that front door can lead you to the other side of the world. I try to remember this, though, that what’s on the other side of that 6 by 3 ft portal is to someone else, the other side of the world as well.