The cottage within me, within you, is our true heart. It is where we are safe and warm and known. For me now it looks like a midcentury modern perched high on a hill facing east. Like the prow of a ship it is strong, steadfast, dependable. A new roof here means that the house is secure again, watertight and ready to face the winter gales off Lake Michigan. This is my own personal House of Belonging.
You may remember me tell of “hearing” in meditation that I was being placed here. Of being taken out of dreams and flown here by witches, shown this was their well worn path, this sacred highway through the woods. Later the indigenous tribes would begin to follow the deer and bear that had traveled parallel the shore for centuries. Eventually it would be paved and become one of the most beautiful scenic roads in North America, M22.
Just outside the front door stands a crooked old Hawthorn tree, probably as old as me and house. Hawthorn is the sacred tree of the Celts, considered a portal between our world and the fairy realms. One of the first mornings after moving in here I woke as dawn was just peeking over the eastern hills, and walked silently out front with the dogs. We were face to face with dozens – maybe hundreds – of Cedar Waxwing resting in the Hawthorn. But they didn’t move. They stared at me as if I’d been expected.
It turns out they foretold of the many flocks of wild birds to come, resting here on their migration up the coast. I would wake on other mornings to a sea of red where my front lawn belonged, carpeted with Northern Flickers. And I would be awakened from an afternoon nap in the sun by the haunting calls of forty or more Sandhill Cranes just clearing the roofline as they flew above me. I’d also have to use my snow shovel to fend off a pair of bald eagles boldly eyeballing my little dogs that next winter.
Out the picture window to the south a triple birch tree rises well above the surrounding evergreens. It appears to be dancing joyously in the wind. It must provide a distant vista; it’s canopy is often full of crows. And outside my back door, on the western side of the house, are a maple and a tulip ash before the hill falls away toward the lake. There are three pair of Cardinal nesting there now. They wait patiently for the seed I put out; the Chickadees don’t even bother to leave the bench while I fill the feeder. Oh! And the twelve friendly turkeys just reminded me not to forget them this morning.
Something magical is going on here. I’d have to be a fool to ignore it.
I’ve talked about moving, and I might…from this house perhaps. But not from the area. This is my heart’s home, if not my dream cottage. That said, I won’t leave here lightly without thought. Or to be more honest, I won’t leave here unless I am re-placed. I won’t leave unless spirit guides me. I am in my 70’s now. It has taken me a lifetime to learn to live intuitively. I won’t go back to living conditionally. Me and my birds. And my trees. We will know.
