 You have always known of this house, have always been invited here where you will remember the exposed beams, the honey-colored wide plank floors, skylights for light of moon, stars and sun, well-worn tables for the drying of herbs and the making of tinctures. This refuge exists beyond time and portals those who enter here into ancient forms of knowing. The movement of stars, prayers for all beings, blossoms, roots, leaves, the gift of understanding the speech of animals, plants, even whole mountains. The ancient ones taught us to come here for strengthening, showing us the uses of gold thread for infection, chamomile rising up through sand and stone bringing calm and wisdom, rose petals for jam or syrup, spirit food in times of sadness or doubt. Coming up you would see sweet-smelling bundles of nettle and lemon balm for swelling, endurance and digestion. The grandmothers and grandfathers invite us here to dance, to meet each other as reflections of our own selves and in the end to become full and complete human being. There is no fee for coming to this magical cabin, simply the donation of humility and the willingness to step into the innocent splendor of the roses, the irises, the lilies in their short and ecstatic dance on the living stage of this enchanted and priceless earth, first made by Gerard Manley Hopkins. This dark-sum-burned horse-back-brown, his roll-rock high-row roaring down, in coop and in comb the fleece of his foam, flutes and low to the lake-fall's home. A wind-puff bonnet of fawn-frog turns and twindles over the broth of a pool so pitch-black, bell-froining, it rounds and rounds to spare to drowning. Daked with dew, dappled with dew, are the groins of the braze that the brook treads through, wiry heat-packs, clutches of ferns, and the bead-bonny ash that sits over the berm. How would the world be once bereft of wet and of wildness? Let them be left, oh, let them be left, wildness and wet. Long live the weeds and the wilderness, yet Theodor Rothgeath wrote, Long live the weeds after this poem by Hopkins. Long live the weeds that overwhelm my narrow vegetable realm, The bitter rock, the barren soil that forced the son of man to toil, All things unholy, marked by curse, the ugly of the universe, The rough, the wicked and the wild that keep the spirit undefiled. With these I match my little wit and earn the right to stand or sit, hope, look, create, or drink and die. These shape the creature that is I. That you were born under, know each of the stars' stories. Remember the moon, know who she is. Remember the son's birth at dawn, that is the strongest point in time. Remember sundown and giving away tonight. Remember your birth, how your mother struggled to give you form and breath. You are evidence of her life and her mother's and hers. Remember your father, he is your life also. Remember the earth whose skin you are, black earth, yellow earth, white earth, brown earth, we are earth. Remember the plants own tribes, their families, their histories too. Listen to them, listen to them, they are alive poems. Remember the wind, remember her voice, she knows the origin of this universe. Remember you are all people and all people are you. Remember you are this universe and this universe is you. Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you. Remember language comes from this. Remember the dance languages that life is, remember.