Once we were children; we roamed like free electrons—impossible to contain. Now we sit, row by row, in the dim light of a bland conference room, bland coffee in our hands, talking about headcount and core competencies, and I look around. I long for the dappled shade of a tree, filled with glittering jewel birds, singing their songs of freedom.

I’m sitting 20 feet away from one of the best string quartets in the world, listening to them practice, and banter, and practice, when they mention hocket—”Does anyone know what a hocket is?” Yes, I think—I vaguely remember learning about that 20 years ago, when my face was as young and fresh as the other faces in the room. “It’s a Harry Potter term,” the violinist says, smiling.

Night falls, and the rushing white noise of the freeway drifts in through the window of the corner suite in a breezy, Spanish-style hotel in San Clemente. Morning breaks, and the ocean calls out, crashing waves surrounded by a clear blue rain-washed sky. Between the freeway and the ocean, a sunny, unassuming sidewalk café delivers an epic breakfast sandwich—crispy bacon, sourdough, and cheese—possibly the best of its kind.

Steam rises from a cast iron pot, and the light from the stove shifts and dances on the plumes as they rise, sending the homey smells of a simple meal out into the kitchen. A long time ago, a little girl looked up from her book and watched the shining dust swirling in the air, the particles reflecting light from the window, in a dance that seemed it would never end. Times change, times change, and we can’t go back (we can’t go back, we can’t go back…)