The Cottage

I laid in the grass. The blades aren’t itchy, in the way grass usually is. It’s like a blanket, of individual threads, that have yet to hold shape. They curled and bent to fit my form, cradling me in this clearing. They did not poke through my clothes, or get caught in my hair; they were pristine in that way.

       

       The sky was blue, with cotton balls for clouds. The clouds shifted, in a slow and steady pace, plumes of vapor that did not touch the earth. The sun slipped past these clouds. They touched my skin with warm light. Its radiance glimmered beyond my eyelids, forcing me to close them. The darkness turned red. 

       

       When I sat up, I walked from the clearing. I moved past the trees. They varied in color, ranging from green to orange. Evergreen needles blended with autumnal leaves, which drifted into their own piles on the floor. They crunched beneath my feet in a steady rhythm. Above me, were the birds. They were far from view, brief shadows that broke the light. Still, I heard their voices. The songbirds sang distant melodies, not quite like sirens, something softer. I found peace in their voices, and I was okay with not following them.

       

       Beside me, was the stream. Its water ran with a gentle current. It joined the natural orchestra as it brushed against and between rocks and pebbles. I knelt, for a moment, to allow the water to caress my fingers. It chilled me, but did not ache as the cold usually did. I remembered that the stream lead to a lake. I’m not sure I discovered that yet. It would take a few more trips to find it. I kept note of it for next time. 

       

       Past the clearing, beyond the trees and stream, was the cottage. It was empty. I opened the door; the hinges creaked as it swung open. It wasn’t dusty, in fact it was warm. A roaring fire was placed in the corner.

I took a seat in the armchair beside the fire. I sunk in it, looking up at the rafters. It was dark at the edges, detail impossible to make out. What was close was clear. I felt a presence beside me, but did not flinch. I did not have to look to understand that it was there. They were tall, and they were old, and they were much wiser than I was. I did not have to hear a voice to understand that.

       

       I closed my eyes again, embracing the warmth. The crackling of the fire was there, filling my ears. I could smell the scent of burning wood, the outside air slipping through windows. I could feel the presence, close, but not overbearing. It was there, hands on my shoulders, like a supportive father. I welcomed it, feeling protected, and encouraged to keep going.

             

       Persevere.

       

       The single word resonated like metal striking a glass of water. It whistled past the noise, past the cottage, past the forest, finding home in a singing bowl that carried. The presence was gone too.

       

       Then, my eyes opened. I stared at the oracle cards in my hands, my heart pounding. I took a breath, and got up. It was my afternoon ritual. Organize the cards, and tuck them away. Blow out the candles that mean nothing to others, and something to me. Collect the crystals, put them away. Roll up the mat. Put out the incense.

       

       My mind was a little clearer then. It had only been ten minutes. It felt like thirty. 

       

       “Hey, Honey,” Mom knocked on my door, “Was I interrupting?”

       

       It still smelled like sickly sweet candles.

       

       “No, no,” I sigh, stretching, “I just finished up.”

       

       “Cool, there’s spaghetti for dinner.”

       

       “Cool.”