Cary left the cabin in search of a space where she could let her skin feel breaths of the sea; she found sounds unproduced—chirps of birds, splash-plops of waves, guttural gusts—balanced her mind before it went into performance mode, where the most ‘natural’ element she would hold close would be the colophony in her case. Playing was her passion; it was not in any way otherwise. She felt powerful and she felt pride as notes so precisely plucked as planned. The violin was her exhale—the veranda, her inhale. Between the two is where balance found her. ; )