March 7: It is a treehouse. In the middle of the tallest trees. The wooden stairs take you up to the front door. Once inside you can open up most of the french doors and it is as if the walls vanish and it is nothing more than a platform in the open air but caressed by green no matter what direction you look.
It feels as if you are isolated from anything but nature.
The dragonflies hover. The birds flit here and there. A rabbit hops out from the tall grass.
The dry riverbed has stepping stones in the center so you can step from one side to the other as a child would dream about after a morning rain.
Buddha sits quietly on the bank of the riverbed. A bench waits for you to find it. The chimes sound with each passing breeze.
In this world, there is no time. In this world there is only peace.
An enchanted cottage on an island in the middle of the trees. Home.
Sitting on the deck you understand the trees are timeless and ageless. Sitting on the deck you are timeless and ageless.