Come to the House

The cabin sits on the upper lip of a bowl with a mosaic view of the frozen lake. Remote and pristine, its winter ensures a choiceless quietude. I make coffee early before anyone wakes but the machine is loud, sputtering and gurgling like a happy little troll bearing gifts.

It's complicated – this gathering, these friendships, and the expectation to somehow fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. My experience is strained and forced, uncomfortable, and a lesson in giving up control.

Coyotes – bears – too many pines to count. The landscape is a powerful calibrator at the moment. What if my community is not the community I want? And, what if wanting instead of accepting is the actual issue?

Lately I only want to quietly sit. Last night in my dream I was in a huge sports stadium. Something was on fire and I had to make my way to the exit before every one else figured out what was happening. However, my 99 year old grandmother with a broken hip was somewhere in that building and I knew I had find her before the mad rush for life. I didn't find Grandma but I found a note from my mother saying, “I have Grandma and she is safe; come to the house.”

Back home, back to the grind. I hurtle toward the need to stop time and it is extremely unpleasant. Eight inches of snow falls overnight and the sky remains as a dark sarcophagus lid.

But then Monicat asks me to join her in visiting an alchemist specializing in archetypal journeys. I'm not sure there is an easier “yes.”