There is a place I go with an entrance through which I emerge into a room of green: green carpet at my feet, green walls with pillars, and a ceiling of green and blue. A breeze flows through and the ceiling is set in motion as if little hands are waving. Sometimes, through openings, I can see clouds sailing silently by as well as birds and an occasional squirrel.
I have a special chair where I sit in this calm space and relax, listen to the breeze and distant, far distant, sounds. The natural music there is more than sufficient. I sometimes cook there and sometimes stay the night. It is my special place, my refuge from the world. Often I write there and have written stories, poems and other work there. Sometimes I write about that special place so as to share it with others far away, even those I don’t know.
I regret that not everyone has such a special place, so I share it with those who will respect it and myself. I have had long, satisfying conversations there. I have helped people appreciate the natural world around them. Hearts have been touched and comforted there. For that, I am grateful.
This is a space I have cleared among the trees at the edge of a meadow at the top of a hill out on the farm where I grew up. It is not always green, but the changing seasons change the décor and some times brings flowers.