“There’s no tidy flower garden here…”

“There’s no tidy flower garden here, and no garden walls or fences.

There’s no gate and no paved pathway up to the front door—only the narrow ribbon of a track worn gently through the woods, with the occasional flat stone placed at a particularly muddy spot and some more just outside the entrance.

The door itself is made of wool-felt blankets, soft and warm, and is almost always strung open to let in the season.

There’s no place, in fact, where the woods end and the hut begins.

They roll right up to the yoni-shaped doorway and tumble inside in bosky scents, sounds, shapes and textures…”