Writers Island: My Imaginary Life
There is a cabin in the woods - not too deep in the woods, just far enough off the path and the road to be a quiet and peaceful place, and screened from public view by oaks and flowering trees. Apple blossom scents the air in spring, and the sounds of traffic are far enough away for the song of all the birdlife to be the constant music of this place. Yes, a stream burbles nearby, and the wildlife that abounds is healthy and well-behaved. Deer come by, to eat nettles and other weeds, but not the jasmine and bougainvillea that drape my porch.
I live here, in rooms that are airy in summer and cosy in winter. I have everything here that I need for a comfortable existence. At one side of the cabin, an area of ground has been cleared and enriched with many years of home-made compost. The range of vegetables and fruit that it produces is staggering. I make use of everything that grows, cooking and freezing, cooking and freezing.
I spend days alone, happy in my own company, with my books and writing, with colours and yarn, with paper, scissors and glue. Then, visitors arrive, and we pass time together chatting, chatting. We make SoulCollage. We walk. We take trips to the sea (which isn't far away); to the town (a town of modest size, but which has all the essentials for life: a library, a theatre and cinema, an place where good music and good art can be found, a great coffee-shop, a restaurant that I want to eat at more often than I can afford). Some visitors come for rest, some for activity. Whichever it is, we time it so that their needs and mine coincide.
While I have said that I live there alone, that is not strictly true, for my constant companion here is the magically-young-again Trixie, who has not only been made young, but become a dog who enjoys travelling so much that the flight to this wonderful corner of California didn't phase her a bit. She and I live contentedly in the place where my spirit is at peace, where my flesh and bones fit together inside my skin, where I breathe, and the air says "home".
This imaginary life comes to you courtesy of Writers Island, where the inaugural prompt was just that: My imaginary life.