Sometimes my soul cannot abide the images around me. Straight-line streets, ugly metal vehicles, modern hurried people. I am living in the city, but my heart has never left the woods. So I will choose the picture that my mind believes, as I walk through this concrete jungle:
It is quiet in the woods tonight. The snow is knee-deep, but the wind has stopped howling.
The fire inside my cabin is warm. It is warmer in a cabin made of logs and heated by wood, than it can ever be in a frame house heated by natural gas and forced air. A wood stove’s fire burns constant. Twelve-inch logs keep the cabin snug. Sometimes, in the deepest winter, you need to open the windows to let out some of the warmth.
It is quiet in the woods tonight. The birds are bedded down, the deer have withdrawn to the swamp, and the moon is high in the sky.
The pines are draped in new snow. The stars are beginning to glint from afar. The light from the wood stove is all that I want. For it is quiet in my soul tonight, as well.