CABIN IN THE WOODS

Sometimes I think I’d like a cabin in the woods.

Logs out front for chopping, ready for the wood burner and those cold winters’ evenings. A rocking chair on the verandah and cool homemade lemonade, long pines that catch the rain and drop the scented water from smooth green leaves.

There’d be shovels for snow and forks for Autumn, propped up against the outhouse. There’d be wind chimes singing with the night breezes, and a weather vane that creaks as it turns. I’d sit and just listen to the wind. Sometimes. Or maybe the crickets or the dawn chorus flittering through the tall trees.

Inside, through the screen door, the long oak table, rough hewn and splintered, surrounded by wooden chairs with soft cushions. A cat, or maybe a faithful dog would be curled on the covered sofa, catching the last rays of sunlight flooding through the single pane window.

I’d like this. It would be a simple, unfussy, clear-headed life, far away from the overcomplicated rat-race. Perhaps I’d sit and pet the dogcat for a while, or wind up a gramophone for something classical. Perhaps I’d fall asleep as the forest grows dark and the cabin is bathed in silvery moonlight. Perhaps an owl would wake me.

Well. I don’t have that, other than in my imagination. I have a messy flat and a spiralling life, a complex network of emotions, and a dreadful fear of loneliness that I know deep in my heart, would not be solved by the cabin in the woods.

Still sometimes I think I’d like it. Sometimes.