Home is the moments of deep impenetrable silence while riding alone on a chairlift, watching the snow fall onto and off of the pine boughs. Home is the void between the trunks and limbs with untouched powdered crystals, where the embrace isn’t human flesh but biting air. Home is when you put your head into glassy water and slowly count the increments of exhale until you’re summoned back to the aboveland. Home is the first sip of coffee in wool socks and sleepshirts. It’s the bitter touch in the back of the mouth that makes you pucker both in the tongue and the space behind the eyes. Home is the half, maybe three quarters second of weightlessness in the transition from inside ski to outside ski—rare, to get a truly fluid, gliding, up and over motion. Home is peace. Home is the buzzing in your ears as you walk from the stovewarm insides to the snowdamp outsides. The tingle in your nerves as you jump from frigid river to boiling spring. Home is the sudden soft dry breath of wind that comes around the corner on the hiking trail. You weren’t expecting the juniper and sage, but now you wonder how without it you ever sustained. Home is finding a combination of words that join perfectly without any rewrites. Like they were meant to fit together the whole time. Maybe they had been together and we just separated them accidentally one day and forgot to put them back where we found them. Home is not making edits. It’s where the things simply fall into place and there isn’t any shuffling and repositioning to be done. Home should be easy. Or, home is easy, and anything that’s not isn’t quite home—it’s an approximation. Home is having a campfire without having to put together the campfire. It’s the smell and heat and ash of the fire, but not the effort. That’s the building of the home, not the home itself. Home is the brief and fleeting interim moments where you feel with all that is in you that the building is finished. The home is the shelter, the place where all the work is already done and all the thoughts and considerations have already been thought and considered. It’s the refuge. The rest. The place where the table is already set and there’s already a seat for you. There’s no “can I get you anything,” because everything is already there. You already have every single thing you could possibly need. You’re content. Home is contentedness. It’s the place where all you must do is be. You don’t have to contribute or produce or improve. Home is where you can hang pictures on the wall and not have to plan for how you’re going to patch the hole, because it doesn’t matter. It’s yours. Home is where you don’t have to ask for permission to plant a bush or paint a wall or have a baby or raise a chicken or cat. It’s where you can do the thing you want at the time you want to do it without fear of someone or something telling you “no” or “later.” Home is a state without consequence. A state where there is nothing to prove and nothing to earn. Nothing to sell but everything to offer. It’s a belief of abundance. There is no lack. Home is not yearning for a single thing, because how could it get any better than this? Home is the sweet spot. The just right. The all you need is a light jacket. The it’s already been taken care of. The feeling, the moment, the state of being. Just full and gentle being.