We used to call it the cabin. Now it's the burnt cabin. Her home for so many years.
Behind her home, acres of old majestic cedars, before her a moving shimmering lake as far as the eye can see. She lives there now on the land. Lives in the heavy little shack built amongst the trees and the tiny vintage trailer worthy of the Queen of Gypsies.
We spent the day catching up. She travels away more often now. Coffee and cakes, and all the conversations you have with the friends who are your family.
A chill in the air of promised snow. A grey flannel blanket lays on the sky. Every living thing seeks a warm place to nap.
Her man builds us a fire to warm ourselves. I select a comfortable chair from the circle of many handmade andirondack chairs surrounding the flames. The coolness of the the air, the warmth of the flames, the smoke perfumes my hair and clothes, the green of the cedars, the glass of the lake, so quiet you can hear the bees humming high above. We speak of curses and cards, luck and fortune, health and roads traveled. Trading, eating, comparing markets and planing the ones we'll return to in the spring.
The heat drives us to the cool wild gardens where we dirty our hands digging roots of comfrey and dandelion, twisting off twigs of rosemary, plucking plaintain leaves.
I forget the time for I am at home in the timeless place amongst my people living close to the earth.
A good day indeed.