There is a place not far from here, much closer than you might imagine, where there are no strangers, where the birds and the trees and the mountain and the wind are known by the names they call themselves—names spoken in a language without words, in a dialect older than the sun.
There is a place nearby where each day is accepted without question as a gift of infinite value from a giver of infinite benevolence, a precious vessel to be filled to the point of overflowing with laughter and story and song and dance and breath and life, where thirst comes on strong with throbbing in the temples and cool water is always close at hand.
There is a place where children play from sunup to sundown and yet have few toys, where school is in session all year long, but the humiliations of a classroom are unknown, where all living things are wise and patient teachers, where each day’s lesson reveals a new and marvelous world.
There is a place just outside the fence where there are no fences or walls or enclosures of any kind, where the land freely caresses the horizon in the spaces between the hills and the sky bends down to carry your feet lightly along the path to the river where a lover waits with hopeful eyes.
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