I've been dreaming up visions lately, of a place I'd love to spirit away to and bury myself during this season of frost and snow.
A perfect hideaway deep in the forest where I could read Kerouac and Nin by day and sip on Jack Daniels and listen to the hell hounds howl at the moon by night.
Wrap myself baby blanket-tight in huge woolen throws, spin the Doors, smoke woody cigars and flip through black and white photos found inside dusty old boxes.
Read Tarot in front of the dancing fire, smell the pine and sage and the outdoor fog.
There would be a big old wooden porch with a worn out rocking chair where I'd sit in my jacket and boots shelling lentils for soups and stringing dried herbs to hang over the door to keep the place safe.
A place of peace and isolation, endless water boiling for mugs of tea and hot stew bubbling in an iron pot... meditating, night wandering, moon gazing and star counting, deer hoof tracking, story writing and forest trinket gathering.
Just me and the silence of the ancient forest... nature at her mightiest.
What a great escape.