14/05/2026
My forest home is not perfect.
It leaks when it rains. The rain falls wildly there, without measure, without warning, drumming on the roof like music through the night. Summers are cold enough to sleep without a fan. There is barely any electricity, sometimes none at all. No network. No constant noise from the world outside.
And yet, it is the quietest kind of home I know.
My daughter swims in the river, climbs trees without fear, runs barefoot through the mud, and waits her forest friends to come stay with us. Their laughter fills the house louder than any television ever could.
And me — I go there to disappear a little. To read. To breathe to draw. To sit with the rain, with fire, with silence. I once read somewhere that to find art, you have to go inward. And I think that is why this place feels so important to me.
Because every time I go there, away from the noise, away from the speed of the world, I return a little closer to myself.