A Cottage in the Woods

Pinpricks of light through worn down curtails announce the waking of the day. I blink slowly awake so as to not rush the beauty. I draw the curtains open to let in the oranges and yellows painted across the sky and bleeding into my home, proof that life goes on and tomorrow always comes. Sometimes I am not sure if my escape was worth it, but that doubt is erased as soon as I wake up the next morning to another artwork being created in the sky, an artwork just for me. I open the windows to let in the noises of the outside world. A breeze rustles the trees, a woodpecker in the distance, birds chirp on my feeders, a stream trickles by. Everything is so beautiful here it must be fake. Everything is so beautiful here it must be real.

Somewhere out there is a town in which I was raised. Told to go to school and make something of myself. I chose instead to make something for myself. Four walls and a roof and a bed and a fireplace. My little sister probably wonders where I am. My little brother was too young to remember me. I name every bird and squirrel and deer and bug after them. I hope they feel my love. I hope they don’t feel trapped.

I wonder if anyone else has fled to the freedom that mother earth provides. I wonder if they feel lonely. When I feel lonely, I look to the stars and think about how many there are out there for me to talk to. I couldn’t see the stars from the town I escaped from. There are so many here. They are my friends and my lovers and my family. I confide in them easier than I ever did another person. This world has so much to offer, if we would just let it.

I am surrounded by art. The artist is Mother Nature. My favorite painting is the sunrise after a storm, and my favorite sculpture is the snowy mountain I can see from my east facing window.

Living here is like living in a museum.

Residing in a fantasy.

Inhabiting a dream.

But I get to call it home.