My routine jog is about 5km long, mostly on the bark-mulch trails of the park. I jog past the duck ponds, dodging mallards and wigeons. I jog past the flower gardens and the petting zoo, spying roosting peacocks high up in the leafless Garry oaks. I jog up through the crocuses to the top of the hill, where a Canadian flag flaps in the ever-present Victoria breeze. From there, I survey the vast expanse of ocean that is the Strait of Juan de Fuca. As I jog down the grassy slope towards the water, I gaze at the towering, glistening Olympic mountains of Washington State. Down near the water, I turn onto the paved walkway and enter the dog off-leash area. I jog with collie dogs and retrievers, racing beagles all along the bluff. Eventually, I return into the residential area, jogging up tree-lined streets past huge wooden character homes, cats napping in windows. Cherry petals swirling to the ground around me.

My life is good here.

Later in the morning, I will go to the little local grocery store. At 10am, the store is filled with grannies and grampas, all five feet tall, pushing walkers and shopping carts that dwarf their bent bodies. Inevitably, a granny will ask for my help in reading a label. I love them all. I love their pale, wrinkled faces. I love their no-rushing pace. I love how they count out change - never using debit cards. I want to help each one.

It's not as depressing as I thought it would be, living in a care home dense area. In fact, there's so much life here, more community than I've felt living in areas full of young families.

And, my life is good here.