interior sanctuary

I have an interior sanctuary. An imaginary land, deep northern forest, always winter. At night I see lights flickering across the lake where my cabin sits, about 100 yards away. I don't know where they come from, or why. They weave drunkenly in the night; by day, they're gone.

Or else, it's some chilly place, always gray and raining. Maybe the pacific northwest. The relentless downpour makes a thundering, echoing noise as it beats the roof. The building is now large and cavernous, perhaps some kind of equipment shed.

Wherever it is, a few things are always the same. There is a fireplace nearby. There is no electricity. And I am alone. It gets dark early. I spend a lot of time with a book and a kerosene lamp. I often hear dogs or coyotes or wolves, howling in the distance. I never see them.

I rarely dream. The nights when I do, my dreams take on shades of yellow and gray. I re-live memories. Old cities, long since changed, take on the configurations they had when I knew them. People I've forgotten -- thought I'd forgotten -- populate the cityscapes. Sunsets bleed red across the sky, behind the rooftops. Red turns to black, as the sun sets and the moon rises. I feel the touch of a small, warm hand in mine, hear laughter. See a smile, bright shining eyes. Taste her lips... The dreams never last long. Never seem to reach their consummation.

But it is okay. I have my cabin in the woods, my place out of the rain, the warmth of my fire, my solitude.

If I ever seem not to be present, seem to be somewhere else, I am. There is an interior sanctuary, where I can always be alone.