There was a woods across the street from the farm. On the far side of of a large corn field, then through an encircled meadow that remained un-tilled, too inaccessible for farming. A small woods through which ran a narrow, banked ribbon of stream.
In winter it was the most beautiful place I could find. I’d make my way across the snow-covered distance to sit in the stillness there.
I took photographs of it a few times, but they didn’t capture it. Made it look ordinary. And it was ordinary. But it was a sacred space, it was empty. No one else went there. Sometimes we rode the horses through, but I was the one who walked there; sat on a fallen tree in late afternoon to be alone in a hollow untouched.
One year people bought the corn field and built a big house and a barn. They’re horse people, too. Good neighbors. I know they wouldn’t mind, but I’ve not walked to those woods since. It wouldn’t be the same. You can’t go back. But it’s still with me, little snow-draped cathedral where I could be patient to wait for Spring.