Home is your place of sanctuary. Where you bury your dead and you give life to the next generation. Where you invest yourself and think and plan for the days and years to come, whether you are alive to see them to fruitarian or not.

Natural instinct heads us towards that food and shelter, just as it does for any other animal.

We are creatures of nature, of habit and habitat.  Creatures of the natural rhythms that surround us and control us. Sunrise and sunset. Light and dark. Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. Home is where you know how to greet each of these events, no matter how long we have been gone or no matter how short our stay. In the winter, the sun goes down just after four. The wind is still and then the North wind garners a new strength and gusts and the shutters on the North side of the house breathe in and out, stirring the curtains with unseen hands until sunrise. Then, ice on the water will have to be broken in the barn for the horses and the chickens will need an extra ration of corn.

You know how many steps are to the privy and how many steps to the woodpile and how many steps to the well and not to trip on that second stone in the path that freezes first and causes more water to splash out on you then you manage to carry to the house.

This is a home…and generations know its rhythm. And count on the sameness to greet them.   This is Sanctuary. The place that knows us and the fields we have plowed and pissed in and gathered from there their bounty, depending on that piece of earth we call our own to feed us and clothe us in our daily wear and to provide our shroud. And at times, we call upon the land to protect us.

All that we need is found here. And for those that we love, this is their Sanctuary, too.