For the last 15 or so years, I have only been able to get there for a week or two in the summer. But this year my husband and I were able to visit for a day in the Spring.
Spring is different at the cottage. The season takes on its own personality, waking the water and land from it’s cold slumber. I had only hours to enjoy it, to rediscover the trees and sandy soil.
I took off into the woods, at first following the trails that four generations have now walked, then ventured off between the trees. With the underbrush and ferns barely breaking through the carpet of dead leaves, and the trees still mostly naked, I could navigate the northern woods.
The birds yelled and sang, ignoring my presence. I followed the well-worn deer paths, but only seeing the wake of tiny hidden creatures.
And here I walked, eventually finding myself on the edge of the water. From this stolen walk, I finally understood why anyone would spend two years in a similar spot to write a book about living in nature.
During the walk I was able to leave all the unnecessary and necessary chaos of the world behind, and just enjoy what was around me. For not even an hour, I was able to be on my own.
In not even an hour, I was able to store up enough moments alone with the Spirit, to delve back into the world I so love.