I was lucky enough to have a sanctuary growing up. A place of safety and warmth.

Hidden in the trees existed a world of my own, and lives before mine, creating a magic I let run through my bones. Pines whispered their stories of who they saw before me and the river demonstrated another universe; at my finger tips, duality in immersion.

Here, I was safe.

I was safe to be mad, I was safe to be angry, I was safe to be wild, I was safe to be happy and I was safe to be what ever I wanted, however I wanted.

I find, now, at twenty-eight there is beauty in that.

The world is not as warm, it is not as safe and when there is freedom there is consequence. Here, there was only warmth.

Her grandfather before her, building a cabin on a bend that has only grown, I see how she has made a haven for all who enter her multi acred land feel at home.

It is a time capsule. I hear the echoes of laughters as walked through the wooded paths we ran through as kids. Glimpses of imagination while weaving in and out of the gardens she has placed in various places, the antique patches of art made to evoke feeling of her creativity; with each item and patch delicately placed.

The most recent visit had the realization; gratitude.

Being a kid who didn’t easily connect with the world had a place to connect to, and someone to connect with. Time is cruel, and as it goes on, I hope to be half the person my grandmother was for me.

In her compassion, her headstrong nature, her resilience, and her openness to all. The ability to make a haven.