I’m staying in my childhood home over the Winter Holidays in Northern California. I’m 31 years old now, and my earliest memories come from this house.

It’s morning on the day after Christmas, and I just meditated on the porch. There’s no one around but a deer on the hillside, wary of me as it nibbles grass. The only sound is the far off hum of cars driving on the 101.

I get up, open the porch gate, and walk down the wooden stairs laid into the hillside.

There were more trees on the hill when I was a kid. Hundred-year-old Oaks everywhere. In thirty…