On Tuesday I made my way to the library. Walked up and down each aisle, not picking up anything, just absorbing the calm, the quiet, the smell.

I’m still in awe of the peacefulness here. How I can hear the neighbor’s child play tetherball across the yard. Amazed by all the green space, all the leaves. When Mason and I went for our first walk I tugged on his shirt sleeve and said, “Look! Mushrooms! Something someone didn’t plant is growing.”

Yesterday morning I went running again. I paid close attention to my feet scuffing across the concrete. Watched and plumes of breath escape my mouth and rise up in front of me. I was still. I was quiet. I was only listening.

The rain plummeted through the leaves and made a sound I hadn’t heard since I was a kid. A dampened thunder, a promise of renewal crashing down. I stopped running and stood there in the dark. Arms outstretched, rain water mixing with sweat on my bare face and chest.

Something is growing. I just don’t know what yet.