I always feel a need to sing the chorus of De colores when on our adventure to what feels like grandma’s nest. Within a quarter of an hour, we trot through a mini forest and various gardens to get to older bear’s piano lessons where “grandma” awaits us. Seated behind the keys of her baby grand she anticipates our arrival into her cabin within the cloistered wilderness. The path we ensue grants us moments of sumptuous quiet time together with occasional discussions about things that have occupied our thoughts recently. I remind older bear of how fervently he used to sing the Spanish language folk song five years ago, half his lifespan, and review the others in his repertoire that resonated with him. Just around the bend and over the hill we dart past the creepy property that looms minutes from her safe haven. I burst out “Y por eso los grandes amores De muchos colores me gustan a mí” speeding up the tempo of the tune with our pace as we zip by the “off limits” neighboring estate that a developer’s single-minded eye is surely surveilling for his next project. Until that inevitable plan, the place gives us a feeling that the big bad wolf is slinking about. We make it without the appearance of the perilous interloper to our destination and I reverently open grandma’s door as older bear takes his seat on the bench in front of the grand piano next to her. Three more quarters of an hour to relax with baby bear as we enjoy his sound before we wallow back home. A sweet time to be a spectator while older bear learns how to be in the moment in the world of music, mastering Italian terminology and growing into his style. A quick learner, methodical with everything in life, yet as a musician-in-the-making he listens and retells the story he hears, he feels and it resonates in the space. And suddenly this feels like home, the instructors’ studio space with baby bear once snug in the carrier now showing off her skills on the floor, the notes older bear’s fingers play and his instructor’s voice whispering intuitive words like an endearing grandmother would. While there is no avoiding the chilling field on the return route, we doubted if we should endeavor with the vanishing light. Then we brushed up against the night flower—something so fascinating about how its aroma can only be suspected at dusk, and with just a few deep breaths a strength overcomes us and we charge ahead a duskier path. Ever shuffle your feet down a trail way and kick up the smells of the season? I love the beauty of these promenades, I see the strides my little man makes with each week and I am reminded of the charm of this Oceanside village. It reminds me to keep reevaluating my dreams because sometimes the grassy and wanting wear road needs to be taken.