When God puts you in a cottage like this, you just have to be a writer. I was just thinking the other day about this small painting I had chosen for us out of the things from Mark's grandparent's house. The painting spoke to me, though I couldn't hear the words back then. It was a painting of a quaint little rose covered cottage. I hung it in our master bathroom. I had a feeling the scene must have been from a place in Europe, England probably. Never dreaming such a place could be found in the northwest. Never dreaming I'd have one of my own some day. But now I do. It is my refuge. My muse. My gathering place. My peace. From my loft bedroom window at night I, with an air of rituality, look out over the lights reflected on the lake below and sigh. It is a sigh of contentment. I planted a climbing rose on the front this spring. Already it has shot thorny arms around the patio door. No blooms yet but this weekend I will snip and fertilize and by next summer I should be firmly planted in my rose covered cottage.
4 hours ago