my dream house is a tree house

source unknown.

Have I ever mentioned that I want to live in a tree house? Well, I do. I want to live in a tree house in the middle of a park. I'm still deciding between Central Park and Golden Gate Park. I can't tell which coast is calling me more.

Either way, it'll be pretty small, hidden up the tallest trees so as not to disturb any passerby. There'll be a rope ladder that drops down for those rare occasions when I feel like venturing out. It'll be a rectangle shape, maybe just three main rooms. There'll be a small bedroom toward the back, but I might not have a bed, just a mattress on the floor to save space. There will be a small kitchen area with a tiny wooden table with two chairs. It will open up to the main living space. An old sofa, a beaten up coffee table, lots of pictures on the walls. I haven't thought much about the interior design, but I know it will be filled with books. Books, mostly on a bookshelf, but also scattered around everywhere, as they tend to be.

There will be windows, of course. Maybe even a window seat. Yes, definitely a window seat. I'll take tea there, every morning, and a newspaper because some traditions can't change. I'll sit there when it rains, and look out on the world. At night, I'll watch the glittering city lights and squint to find the stars.

And during the day, I'll write. Mostly, that means sitting around and drumming my fingers against the keyboard as I ponder life with such intensity that words completely fail. I'll bake cookies and scatter crumbs for the birds while I wait for the right words to come. On that rare occasion when I do know what to say, though, the sound of the keyboard will be the sound of something that knows what it wants and it will be lovely.

Sometimes, I'll leave my tree house. Carefully, I'll tiptoe down and land safely on my feet. It will feel good to be on the ground. I'll walk around the park, observe strangers, take pictures. I'll walk around town; perusing secondhand bookstores for worn out poetry volumes, scanning the sale racks for new sweaters because goodness knows I won't already have enough, strolling through the botanical gardens to see what's in bloom this season. Maybe I'll meet friends for lunch at a small French cafe so I don't drift too far away from reality and from human contact.

Perhaps, occasionally, if I come up with the sums, I'll travel. I'll hitch a ride with someone with an interesting name and an even more interesting face and we'll go to Paris and Petra and Peru and all manner of places. My passport will grow thick with all the stamps and the smell of the ocean will tide me over when I'm at home amid the trees.

I don't know how it's going to work, but I am going to live in a tree house.