Rooted & Roaming

The gravel crunches beneath your boots as you step onto the land. Not in passing, not with uncertainty, but as one who belongs.The air is thick with cedar and lavender.

A doe watches from the tree line, unafraid. Someone calls your name before you even see their face. And when you round the curve in the path, they’re already waiting, smiling and arms open, as if they’ve always known you’d arrive.

They don’t ask questions. No forms. No formalities. Just:“You made it. Welcome home.”You follow the winding footpath as it opens into the heart of the land. Chickens scratch peacefully in garden rows. Bees hum over wildflowers. A group near the solar shed is fixing a water line, laughing like old friends.

Everything around you feels alive and tended. Not just the land, but the people. Bare feet, soil-stained hands, music playing gently from the open kitchen lodge, fruit ripening on the trees.

And then they take you to your treehouse.It rises like something out of a memory. It is lovingly nestled between four towering pines. A spiral staircase wraps around the trunk. Your fingers trail the smooth railing as you climb slowly, reverently.Inside: warm wood, glowing light. A round window overlooking the garden beds. A table with a simple note that reads:“You’ll know what to plant here.”. A kettle already resting on the stove.

You stand in the stillness for a while, letting it all settle in your bones.

Later, someone walks with you to the shared pantry. There are woven baskets filled with root vegetables. Jars of pickled beans, herbal honey, and dried herbs line the shelves. You fill your bag with just what you need. No more, no less. You know you’re welcome to return whenever you’re hungry.

And then comes the feast.

Golden hour stretches across the clearing. Long tables sit beneath the covered grove, lined with lanterns and plates. String lights glow like stars above you. There’s fiddle music, children dancing, and elders sharing stories of how each soul found their way here.You take your place at the table. A plate heavy with roasted squash, wild greens, and warm cornbread. You look around—at the faces, the firelight, the joy—and something ancient inside you stirs.

You close your eyes, lift your face toward the stars now rising overhead, and whisper:

“I remember now. I remember why I came.”

If something in this story stirred your spirit…If you felt yourself arriving here, too. Then this was always meant for you. Leave a comment and let me know how this resonates.

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Read more: 🌿 “The First Day You Remembered You Were Home” 🌿