The Wooden Cabin

Cabin in the woods (The Hermitage Westport)

For a couple of days I dive in the skin of Henri David Thoreau, switching of from the world in a secluded forest near Westport.

One night storm is encouraging the fir and oak trees to do the wave dance.

The other night complete silence, not a whiff of wind, the half moon lighting up the forest, keeping twilight awake.

Life pace instantly slows down. Your mind is not racing from one thought to another. With hardly any distraction one suddenly has barely any desire, as if you're another being, not human. Time does not exist as you live on the pace of daylight.

The pattering of soft rain wakes you up.

The orchestra of birds featuring the pigeon, robin and blackbird conjures a carefree smile on your face. One bird takes the cake, the song thrush mimicking the song of countless others, she's a delight to the ears and soul.

At waking up you instantly start the fire, to snuggle some more in bed while the shelter warms.

Spending some time here, nothing matters anymore. No money, success, greed, lust, heartache, pleasing others, the desire to mean something, to be someone, it all fades under the peaceful energy of hundreds of trees. It's another world where one can just "be" and where "doing" fades.

So one wonders: "What's the point?"

All we do, our existence of which we praise ourselves so highly or diminish ourselves so deeply. Our tiny lives, just a split second in this universe. Does it all make sense? Does it all matter in the end? 

In the end we all have to die. Don't you?