And just like that, I’m back in Madrid launching a business. After a three month retreat in a country cabin in Woodstock, I returned to a city I adore. My departure was ambivalent as I left failed plans and proximity to loved ones. It’s bitter sweet to move to another country in search of work and belonging. New York is my birthplace, but so much has changed. Madrid is loud and sunny. Constant street life, cultural events, good wine and food. It’s quite a change from the quiet calm of the overcast country. No bear and deer outside my window, for example. Now, I’m living in a tall building at the edge of the city. In spite of the hustle and bustle downstairs, I can disappear into the airy lightness of the sky. There are pros and cons to every style of living and I’ve been thinking a lot about how one’s lifestyle and setting impact our state of mind and mindfulness practice. In Woodstock, there was isolation, lush greenery, lots (and lots) of insects and wildlife, long winding, country roads, mountain landscapes and ritualistic chanting at the Zen Buddhist Monastery. In many ways, it was the quintessential setting for meditation, art and contemplation. Yet, even in that bucolic setting, where hippies and artists from the 60’s set up shops and never left— there was a feeling of nostalgia and loneliness. Every morning I jogged by an old woman with long white hair, jeans and tie dye t-shirt who would come out of her house to check her mail. One day, she waved at me,

“The mind is always seeking zones of safety, and these zones of safety are continuously falling apart. The opposite is when all the walls fall down, the cocoon disappears and we are totally open to whatever happens. That’s what stirs us and inspires us: leaping, being thrown out of the nest, going through the initiation, growing up, stepping into something that’s uncertain and unknown.” Pema Chödrön, The Wisdom of No Escape I’ve been living in a cabin in Woodstock, New York this summer. Here in the forest, it’s been raining nonstop with frequent thunderstorms. There are swarms of gnats, mosquitos, ticks and bees. We have one black bear who forages our garbage at night. Also, two deer and their fawns, one rabbit and a hare. Some days, the humidity exasperates me. I sit on the wooden porch and search for the sun through the clouds and trees. I sulk. I close my eyes and bring to mind the sunsets in Madrid, the kind that transform the blue sky into a yellow, orange, burnt amber finger painting. Nostalgia creeps in and I come inside and look for comfort in a cup of tea. Days pass. I continue my routine: zazen, running, cooking, reading wisdom, murmuring late night miracle prayers. Oh, yes. There’s an occasional movie or series and deep talks with my son. Still, some days, I feel like a lighthouse beam flickering. Yesterday, I went outside and found my son wrapped in a bird song. He’s listening to a woodpecker, that on any other occasion might have sounded random but wrapped in his presence, it