“This week, write a map leading to where you live. Start as close or far from your home as you wish and trace the paths, obstacles, and landmarks that lead you to your door. Think about who you’re creating this map for and when they would have an occasion to use it. How would you describe the geography of your neighborhood to someone who’s never been there? Consider the elements that are special to you and make where you live feel like home.”

Instead of writing the map leading to where I live, I want to write a map of sorts from where I live.

The first step to getting out of the door is making sure that I have everything that I need. Then I say goodbye to Belle, my cat and my roommate if she’s there.

While closing the door, I am aware of the red and white “Welcome” mat often gets stuck. It doesn’t this time. Once I lock our light green door, I am in the hallway.

And in the hallway, my senses are flooded. I see how the lights make everything slightly yellow, I smell the Indian food that seems to perpetually come from my neighbors around the corner, I hear the dogs from across the way barking and their owner yelling at them, I feel my knees bending as I walk down the steps, and through my shoes, I feel when the carpet ends and turns into tile as I approach the front door with its cold, black, metal handle.

I don’t always have time to appreciate my view, but sometimes I stop to consider. Directly in front of me and to the east is another building, its yellow paint cheerily echoing the paint on my own, and two trees flanking the sidewalk that leads to the parking lot. I know that the mountains are behind me, but I don’t see them. I just have faith that they are there because I saw them when I woke up in the morning.

To the south is the path to the shopping center where I go to lunch sometimes. That path also leads into a much longer trail by a creek. This path has a good view of  various roads. The highway and the train disappear before reappearing, but the mountains and the creek are always consistent.

To the north is usually where my car is, parked wherever I could find a spot the last time I drove. I walk in the grass to get to my dark green vehicle. In the winter, it is haggard looking when it is seen. When snow is covering the ground, I delight in the crunching sound my shoes make even while I’m dreading the possibility of scraping ice off my windows. Right now, in late spring, I enjoy trudging through the green grass, which is usually wet from the rain Colorado has been getting lately or from the sprinklers.

I temporarily forget about my surroundings as I sit in the car, turn it on, and select my music. But as I reverse out of my space, I look to the north, take a breath, and feel right at home because no matter what direction I’m facing, no matter what the weather is, I know where the mountains are.