Cabin in the Woods

I've often dreamed of a cabin in the woods. Solitude. Escape. Self-sufficiency. Being. I can see the wood panels of the sides and the door and the roof. The dripping of the old glass. The trees that bow down in silent acceptance and welcoming, allowing foot trails and paths to come between them and lead the way to the places it's possible to go. A fireplace inside. A rocking chair. Warmth. Simplicity.

There are times I've wanted to leave. To run away. If I could just drive a certain distance, I could be there. I could cut all ties to other attachments. My cabin could be. Simplicity and comfort and contentedness would come to me.

But that is not the way.

There is no where to drive.
There is no where to walk.
There is no address.

My cabin is.


My cabin in the woods is the whisper of trees as they release their leaves to nourish their roots. It is my mother taking cookies out of the oven as I come in from a rainy bus trip home from school. It is seeing past the coal of the shipyards to the pink-golden sunset on the river. It is not running away and shutting out the world but taking it in and loving it anyway. It is exploding over and over again in every fraction of a second, particles exchanging and sharing and dancing a cosmic dance - and in those moments feeling only being and oneness and wholeness. It is realizing the miracle. It is golden birch trees lining a pebble lined stream where I hold my child and whisper to her "This is always here."

I can imagine and even almost feel its physical structure- my cabin's ancient boards, knotted rugs, and quilts heavy with love and hand-stitched care- but I now know that my cabin is not corporeal. It doesn't stand. It is within.

My cabin in the woods is a split second of pure peace.
It is home.