Forest houses always have something magical. Hidden behind trees, found on clearings, they seem to appear all of a sudden. Sometimes the traveller may smell smoke from a fire inside the house, or she may see wisps of smoke curling through the trees.
Forest houses are strange in many ways ... strange if someone lives there, for who would choose to be set apart, to be free or wary of watchful eyes? They are strange if abandoned and leave the traveller with many questions all by herself. Who has lived here? Who built this house, when and why? Where is the last inhabitant - just gone to pick some herbs for dinner, or gone for good? And why?
I love the hidden things, the unseen or barely visible - the shade of a shadow, the clue of a whisper, the first notes of an almost forgotten song.
I love the magical - fragments of ancient stories, memories of trees caught in golden pieces of amber, traces of what once was and may be again.
I may be found by the forest edge, weaving my way through trees and dry branches. I may be found by the lake shore. On new moons, I may not be found at all.
I'm a spirit archeologist, burying my roots deep in the earth, searching... for hidden thoughts, light touch, the exciting moments when things change - when salmon returns home, when spirits wander in the precious seconds of breathing in and out...
You may not see me, because the forest is like the greater extension of my body. I know how to hide, and you may pass me without noticing that I stand behind the old beech tree.
Suddenly, I may long for home and silently walk back to my forest house. Don't come on a new moon. When my moon mother is unseen, so am I. If you come during the waning phase, I may beckon you to come inside and have a cuppa tea with me... if you come with an open heart and mind.
