This word, "shelter" has been coming up a lot lately. I'm drawn to it for all it possesses that is cozy, voluntarily protective, like a little dwelling in the forest with a writing table and a tiny chair inside, and no electronics whatsoever.
The bunk has a soft, but not squishy mattress on a small wooden frame. On top of the woodstove sits a floral kettle that brings a tease of color to an otherwise soft and woody single room. The blankie is velvety and my grand aunt's faded quilt lays over the end of the bed, inviting naps at any time of day. Firewood and pinecones are piled up outside the window, and my old truck sits in the driveway alone, to be seen by no one for days.
Shelter, for me, is a ritual of solitude. When my ears go quiet and my senses cease to be repeatedly shocked by the stimulus and reactivity of my day, I rest. Even if I'm not exactly resting, my wiring is at rest. Vitality can also be found in silence, a teaching that keeps seeking me out.
I'd take a few things to this cabin called Shelter with me: Honeybush tea for morning and ground coffee + the french press for the afternoon. A coldbox with cream, bread, cheese, wine, cakes, water, olives. Dad's venison jerky, canned trout, some Walt Whitman, tall furry boots, birdseed, a warm ears hat, medicine shawl, Coyote, my notebook, a tin for collecting small forest floor goodies and feathers, a tiny vase, thick yarn and bamboo needles, fuzzy socks, a way to make fire.
Tell me what you'd bring to this tiny haven far from civilized noise...