My writing cabin sits on its foundation from the stones in my woods. Hefting them into my small trailer was backbreaking work, but well worth the effort. Stone foundations are tricky to build! I still feel giggles in my tummy when I look at it, mostly because I think it's cute. But, more importantly, I think that piece of cuteness holds most of my dreams, meditations, and books yet to be finished.
Each morning I reach for the handle on its hobit-like door and hesitate for a second before I walk in. "What is my cabin going to give me this morning," I ask? Its love is always there, but each day has a different feel. It may be filled with dappled sunlight from the woods, or gray from the early morning mist. Too hot from summer's humidity, or too cold from winter's wind. With both air conditioning and heat I can make the changes accordingly.
What I can't change is the gift I'm given once inside. It may be tears, or a new chapter to my book. Joy, or the peek of a fawn resting among the underbrush. My cabin holds a mystery for me each day, and finding the key for that lock isn't always easy. I am challenged.
But it is perfect.
