I Found My Way to The Cottage at Rowan Hollow
The day I realized no one was cheering me on, it wasn’t dramatic. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that settles when applause never comes. I simply took a new direction.
Literally.
Instead of turning right at the fork in the road, I turned left.
I knew I would be late for work. But, who was I kidding? I knew when I took the fork in the road I wasn’t going to work at all that day. As soon as I committed and was 50 steps down the path (I had a habit of counting my steps), I could feel how different this path was compared to the path I had taken for the last three years.
The first thing I noticed was that the air smelled sweeter. The birds were singing more enthusiastically. The sun was warm on my hair. I paused and turned back in the direction I had come. Behind me, it looked dim. I turned forward again, and everything was brighter.
I hesitated, not to consider going back, but to let it sink in how much contrast there was from where I had been to where I was going.
I took a deep breath, exhaled, and continued walking. My eyes softened, my step was steady, and I shifted my backpack on my shoulder.
The path, a combination of moss and round stones, led me to where I was headed. I saw something glint on the ground, and as I arrived, I paused, looking down at it. A stone with quartz sparkling. I rocked on my feet and watched as the sunlight glittered like tiny diamonds. I bent down and picked it up, then closed it in my hand feeling its rough surface on my palm. I continued walking.
The next bend lined me up with a brook, which I followed until the path turned into gravel. This was a manmade path, not a natural one like the forest path I had been following. I began counting my steps again.
555 steps landed me at a gate. I looked to my left and saw a rowboat on the bank of the brook. To my right was a mailbox, with bright red mushrooms dotted around its base.
The arch above the gate had a sign.
Rowan Hollow.
Climbing wild rose twisted around the sign, and I leaned close to the post to breathe in the scent. Sweet, fruity, it smelled more like apple jam than roses. I stared at the bloom and imagined painting the image… watercolor would be softer, but oil would be more vibrant. I memorized the yellow pollen and the subtle pink shading that highlighted the lighter pink petals. I imagined sprinkling black pepper to denote the seeds.
I called out a tentative hello. There was no answer. The air was still. The birds were quiet. Pushing gently on the gate, it remained latched. Looking around again, I lifted the latch, and the gate swung inward. As I stepped through, the birds began singing, and a soft breeze blew strands of hair across my face. I pushed the gate closed and walked up the stone path to the front door.
Committed now, I approached the front door, which was like the gate: rustic but solid. It was impossible to tell how old it was because it was in such great shape, but it seemed to be from another place in time.
There was a basket hanging on the handle; in it was a piece of ivory-colored paper folded in half. I picked up the paper and opened it.
It said, “Welcome to The Cottage at Rowan Hollow. We are so glad you arrived. It has been a long time since we have been expecting you. The door is unlocked, please let yourself inside, take off your shoes, put on the slippers, hang up your coat, and make yourself at home.”
I read the note again, looked left, and then right, then placed my hand on the doorknob. As I opened the door, I took a step inside. I hesitated, listened, and then went all the way in and closed the door behind me.
A dark walnut hall tree was on the left. Another clue that I either had gone back in time, or artifacts from time gone by had landed here at Rowan Hollow.
I glanced at my image in the mirror, and eked out a small, closed-lip smile. I raised my eyebrows at my image, shrugged at myself, and then took off my coat and hung it on one of the hooks. I toed off my shoes and put on the slippers. The house was a comfortable temperature, but I rubbed my hands together as if to warm them.
Then I looked around and saw three doorways, each slightly ajar. I decided to go forward to the door directly in front of me. I pushed the door open. It was a den, or a library of sorts. A fireplace was on the left, a desk was on the far wall under a paned window, and a door arch opened to the right and I could see it opened to a kitchen.
I stepped into the room and inhaled. The room breathed balsam and fresh-baked bread.
The walls and floor were dark wood with blond highlights. The ceiling was rough plaster, smoothed into a flowing texture. The windows had diamond-shaped panes and latches to open them outward. The desk was roughly hewn wood planks, as were the bookshelves. The books appeared to be leather-bound.
On the desk were leaflets of paper that appeared to be handmade. They had that rough texture that was riddled with lint. The handwriting was penned like sloppy calligraphy. There were pages with paragraphs, pages with columns, and pages with numbered lists. A leather-bound book was closed on the desk. I opened it briefly and saw that it had doodles, paragraphs, lots of sentences with ellipses…
“Coming home to myself is realizing I was never lost –
I was just visiting other people’s expectations.”
I traced the quote with my index finger and leaned into the desk.
I was startled by a shrill whistle coming from the direction of the kitchen. I dropped the book and rushed toward the sound.
Steam screamed from the teapot on the stove. I rushed over and lifted the teapot from the flame. The teapot whirred to a quieter whistle and became quiet, as I turned to look for where to put it down, the water sloshed and sent out another shrill trilling sound. On the hutch behind me were a couple of pottery mugs and jars of loose tea. I placed the teapot on the trivet, turned back to the stove to address the open flame that had heated the teapot.
Expecting someone to approach who had put the kettle on, I waited alone in the kitchen. When, after a few minutes, it dawned on me that I would remain alone, I turned to make a selection for tea.
I felt more at home here than I had in a long time.