The art studio is the heart and hearth of the building, and this is where we meet.

Afternoon sun pours in through the skylights, refracting off particles of magic that hang in the air like mist along the Northern California Coast.  Amy has just arrived.

“Ready for my volunteer shift,” she announces. Amy approaches me with a slight limp and unsteady gait, remnants of the car accident that inflicted her childhood with traumatic brain injury. Sandy brown waves frame her round face, her blue-gray eyes dancing like saucers – one drifts slightly towards the heavens, the other pierces my soul. Like me, she is an East Coast transplant, and our playful, sarcastic banter connects us to a sense of home. She’s happy to be here. I’m happy to see her.