Into the Woods


First, a playlist inspired by my first week in Bear Brook: Into the Woods Mix

It’s been an amazing time these first three weeks in the woods. I wish I knew how to describe how wonderful it feels to be living amongst the trees, walking a quarter mile to the bathroom, seeing by starlight, listening to the wind, and rising before the sun almost everyday. Slippers help cold toes, sleeping bags on the floor help the nights when our fire burns too hot, new friends help each other learning keys on the piano, strings on the mandolin, or muscles stretching in the body. Instead of incoherently babbling on about it, here’s a little something I wrote for this week’s “coffee house” at the lodge (write a story A-Z, w/ one sentence at least 50 words long):

Sunday Night/The Little Cabin

A little cabin rests in the woods, seemingly alone in this world.

Breezes caress her bones late in the night and help release some much needed heat.

Creaking, she moans with the wind, the cold and the fire.

Daylight is a long way off, but she doesn’t mind.

Every night is a new adventure.

Fires that burn too hot rustle her dwellers, but sweat the ice off her brow.

Grey light pours through the windows tonight.

Heavy air is a distant memory.

Icicles have decided to stay one more day.

January wraps herself around this little cabin.

Knits herself into the cracks.

Lazily, the cabin breathes in and out.

Monday threatens.

“Never mind that now,” the little cabin says.

“Only once my coals are out can you properly arrive.”

Painful are those moments.

Quietly, the little cabin puffs out her last bit of smoke.

Rather than rouse her dwellers, though, her cold shoulder pushes them deep into denial.

“Stay away morning, for just this once, stay away!”

Then, seemingly all at once, blue dawn melts into the dark, urging the grumblers to emerge from their cocoons, or the fire-starters to lift their lids, peer through the grey, and grope for the cast iron.

“Until the next night, then,” the little cabin thinks to herself.

Venturing off into the woods, her dwellers leave the comfort of her walls, seeking the comfort of food, toilets, and the fuel of the burning sun.

When night returns she’ll be here, hoping for the scent of smoke and ash, milk and honey, pine and snow.

Xenophilius Lovegood once betrayed his friends and blue up his house for only the false, desperate hope for the safe return of his beloved daughter, but our little cabin knows that our deep attachment and our intimate dependency will only ever be a moment in time, an impermanent bond, or a wisp of smoke.

Yet, she welcomes us back each night as old friends.

Zero judgements, zero burdens, zero expectations for one more night within her walls.


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