Where there is sacred ground that cradles fairyland and nourishes friendships.
Where it’s rural-quiet which is different from suburban quiet or city quiet which never is.
Where the slap of a wooden screen door echoes back into time when it banged against the frame of a hunting lodge now evolved into a home that is ever in a place of changing grace.
Where the windows frame mowed grasses, a wide swath of path that leads down to the pond and the place where the fairies live – Shh.
Slip off your shoes and feel them talk to you through the soles of your feet.
Where dogs run free except at night when the skunks are out.
Where dirt roads track you back into the hills away from the sprawl of a noisier lifestyle where you can find your center. Not that it was lost.
It was always there. You just didn’t have a reason to go looking for it until now.
Where who you are is bound up with how many acres you own not what you do for a living or how big your house is.
Where the rich harvest of food is freely shared, conversations are silly yet profound, wistful and strong, thoughtful and encouraging.
Questions asked and answers — as best we know them — given.
Where jump ropes and tents share pride of place with outdoor cooking spaces, wooden tables laden with relishes and honey, secret recipes of watermelon swimming in pickled brine and a white boxer stands guard out of sight, close enough to keep a watchful eye on little girls who want for nothing. [gplus count=”true” size=”Medium” ]
Acknowledgement: artwork, Darryl Abraham Cards