“A place where something flourishes, is most typically found, or from which it originates.”
After a very busy three weeks, I needed some time to rest and recharge. The place I usually go to do this is my childhood home.
There’s something sacred about the farm I grew up on. There are memories woven through every room of my grandmother’s house. There is magic hidden just beneath the floorboards of the barn. And there’s something that sits, waiting, just beyond the trees. Something transcendent, and nameless, and huge.
At Hillside this weekend, a poem was read in one of the workshops I attended. With it came an image of this particular spot in the forest, where I used to sit as a child:
The trees ahead and bushes beside you are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here, and you must treat it as a powerful stranger, must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers, I have made this place around you. If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.