There is a cabin located at the top of the climb, a thousand
feet from the tourists below. The log
house is rectangle in shape, a single room,
warmed by chimneys at each end. A
table of wooden planks is brightened by a simple ceramic pitcher filled with
wildflowers. A rocking chair dominates
one end, a counter-balance to the kitchen – one the emotional, the other
spiritual, center of the home. The rafters
hold dried herbs and the abundance of a good harvest. Quilts cover the beds, a family history of
memories retained in the materials used – a child’s gown, an old apron, the
gifts of a wedding chest. Inside, the world is contained. All is organized, simple and purposeful. It is all unto itself, complete. Yet, a step outside reveals the youth of man
and his safety. The trees dwarf all else. The pine cones that collect on the ground
demonstrate the fertility of giants, a seed of impressive size. These
women of the forest bear their young in flames. Light filters through leaves as if in a
cathedral of towering divinity. Time is different here. These guardians stood when Julius Caesar was
a babe and bear witness to all our folly.
All my problems are small and fleeting in this place.
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