I am sitting at a table made of walnut, on an oak chair of deep mature colour. As I rub my hands on the smooth careworn arms, I remember someone, a dear family member, who sat in this very chair for many years. I am surveying the landscape of my life, and the woods speak to me. There is a cabin of strong hemlock beams that was given body through honeyed pine boards by my husband’s family. Hewn from the surrounding woods, they are a mirror of family life on this land. I look out at the shimmering sunlight through the reaching branches of the cedar grove to glimpses of a lake that lies just beyond. I am soothed by the warmth of the woods within, and the embrace of the woods without. Beautiful birdsong fills the air — the calls of the ubiquitous blue jay, the drumming of the grouse, the trills of purple finch. As evening comes on, I hear the exquisite song of the hermit thrush and then the lowly whippoorwill calling its
