Sanctuary

Sanctuary

There is a place I visit, in my mind, when things in the real world are too much. This place is called “Sanctuary.”  I close my eyes and I am instantly transported to a place, where time can stand still for hours. I immediately smell the white spruce trees as the wind pushes the fragrance past my nose. I open my eyes, and there is my cottage in the clearing of the woods.  It is made of stone with a blue tin roof, and covered with ivy. It has small windows with flower boxes. There is a small bubbling brook that runs beside the cottage.  As I begin to walk up the path, my bare feet can feel the cobblestone walkway, as my legs feel the silky smoothness of the dress I am wearing, as it whips against my legs in the soft gentle breeze that blows through the woods. I smile as I am warmly welcomed by all the creatures of the forest, which play in the herb garden in front of the kitchen window. I can almost taste the sweet garlic that grows there. I see the family of chipmunks as they rush up to greet me making all sorts of squeaks and chirples. The shy red birds sing a song as I look up at them and gesture hello. The friendly red fox peeks from around the fresh lavender growing in the herb garden and grins at me while his whiskers twitch madly.

               As I continue up the stone path, my heart feels at peace.  There are others that share this place with me: “the keepers of sanctuary”. As I look toward the cottage, the heavy wooden door opens. I step over the threshold, and I see Sweet Honesty as she is concentrating on a canvas, painting with careful and skilled strokes, with a colorful brush dripping with reds, shading into pinks. She‘s humming the song “The Rose,” by Bette Midler. There in the corner of the kitchen beside the hearth, a crackling fire burning hues of orange and red, sitting at the table is Patty the Poet. She’s writing her latest discourse. Her pencil moves across the paper, then stops suddenly as she raises it to her temple and taps it gently against her head, as if somehow her thoughts will be transferred from her mind directly to the pencil so she may resume her writing. I glance into the dining room where Hannah Homemaker is placing doilies on the table, then arranging a center piece in the middle of it, with ivy and mums in preparation for the evening meal. She has a freshly baked chicken with fresh roasted garlic in the oven. I know this because the smell is permeating my senses to the point I can taste the garlic chicken. To my surprise, a black and white long haired cat with green eyes has been added to the group. She is perched on the window sill of the living room, spying on the chipmunk family, as her long tail gently swishes back and forth. At that moment I notice the window is open, as she springs out the window. I panic as I think of the chipmunk family that lives just below the window. Then she reappears with a chipmunk clenched between her teeth. I explain to her she cannot bring the chipmunks inside the house, as I gently remove it from her mouth and return it to the herb garden.

             For many years I thought I was alone, when I visited the cottage, except for the ghosts, or what I thought were ghosts. I could hear the whispers of voices and could feel their presence, yet I was never afraid. Sometimes I wondered, who cooked the delicious meals that were there waiting on the beautifully set table? Who painted the dozens of flower themed canvases? Who wrote the poetry of an undying love?

               I now know that, “the keepers of sanctuary” whom I thought were ghosts are, in reality, parts of me;  the part of me that loves the fresh smell of white cedars in the woods, the  vivid colors of paint and the feeling of a brush floating across a canvas; the part of me who pens poetry, while sitting beside a blazing fire; the part of me; that prepares scrumptious meals and beautiful table arrangements; the fearful me that desires a safe haven, refuge, and most of all sanctuary.