I didn’t call it an escape at the time. I called it Camp Creek. I called it the cabin on the side of the mountain. I called it “the place I can afford for now.”
It was one room, and the floor sloped toward the back wall. The windows were small, but offered a panoramic view of the trees. There was hook by the door where I hung a hat and scarf I never wore — the only hook in the whole place. It gave me a sense of “home”.
There was a bench by the door, three faded pillows on it. A wreath above on the bench, lopsided, that I never fixed. I liked that it was crooked. It felt honest. When I went outside for coffee, I sat on the deck . . . not the bench. I left the bench untouched, like the dining table in the place I left. It was never home there. And the Camp Creek cabin was the most at home that I’d ever felt.
It was always windy there. The kind of wind that doesn’t ask permission, that pushes through the trees and makes them lean. I would sit on the porch with my tea going cold to watch them and think: they’re going to break. They never did. They bent. They swayed. They held.
I didn’t feel hopeful then. I didn’t see it as a beginning. I only knew I had left. Left the house, left the person, left the version of myself who kept explaining, kept apologizing, kept tolerating the other women . . . kept trying to make it make sense. There was grief in that leaving — not for him, but for the years I gave, for the woman I was in that house, for the belief that if I just loved better it would be okay. Grieving that is a quiet, lonely thing. No one brings casseroles for that kind of loss. You grieve the time. You grieve the self you abandoned to keep the peace. You grieve the fact that you stayed as long as you did.
Some nights I would wake up in the cabin and not know where I was for a few seconds. Then I’d hear the wind and remember: I’m here. I’m safe. I’m alone, and it’s not a punishment. I would get up and clean, even if I wasn’t dusty, just to have something to do with my hands. I cooked for one. I swept the sloped floor. I learned the sound of the wind when it was happy and the sound it made when it was about to whip.
I stayed. Quietly. No fanfare. Just me in that cabin on the mountainside, while the wind did its work.
I painted it recently — not the pain of it, but the fact of it. The cabin small against the trees. The bench with the pillows. The wreath, still crooked. The wind you can’t see, only feel in the way everything leans. I called it Held by the Wind because that’s what it was. Not saved. Not rescued. Held.
Funny thing: my neighbor’s name was Hope. I didn’t know that until the day I moved in. In those first days and weeks, I also found a different kind of hope.
Leaving him felt like ripping off a band-aid that had been stuck for years – painful, messy, but ultimately, necessary for the wound to breathe and heal. I packed what little I could, left behind a life that had shrunk me to nothing, and drove until the pavement gave way to gravel, and then to a winding dirt track. That’s how I found my tiny home, a little cottage nestled deep in the woods. It was small, sure, but it was mine, and it hummed with a quiet promise of peace I hadn’t felt in years.
The first few weeks were a blur of raw emotion and the dizzying silence of being truly alone. There were no more yelling matches, no more subtle digs, no more walking on eggshells. Just the rustle of leaves, the chirping of crickets, and the gentle creak of the old house settling into the night. My soul felt like a tangled knot, slowly, painstakingly, beginning to unravel.
Finding My Tribe, One Furry Friend at a Time
I wasn’t completely alone for long, though. Turns out, the woods had a welcoming committee. My days quickly filled with caring for a motley crew of critters – a stray cat with a notched ear who demanded breakfast every morning, a family of raccoons who decided my porch was prime dining real estate, and a pair of crows who would squawk at me every morning. It was funny, really.
After spending so long trying to please someone who was unpleasable, pouring my love into these animals felt like a balm. Their unconditional affection, their simple needs, their honest presence – it was a lifeline. They taught me about trust again, about quiet companionship, and about the sheer joy of a purr or a wagging tail. Every day, they reminded me that I was capable of love, and more importantly, worthy of it.
And then, unexpectedly, came the human connections. The nearest neighbor offered Hope, with eyes that saw right through the BS and a laugh that could chase away any gloom, became a surprising friend. We’d swap stories over coffee on her porch, and we shared many campfires.
I also met a few folks at the local mom-and-pop pub. We were all a bit quirky, a bit weathered by life, but fiercely independent and kind. They didn’t pry, they just accepted. I learned to lean on them, and they on me, in ways I hadn’t thought possible. It wasn’t loud or dramatic; it was just genuine, solid friendship that grew like the ancient oaks around my home.
Reconnecting with the Wild Heart
Being out there, surrounded by nature, was a complete re-education. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be part of something bigger than myself and his suffocating world. Every morning, I’d step outside and just breathe in the crisp, pine-scented air. I watched seasons turn, noticed the tiny details – the intricate patterns on a fallen leaf, the way sunlight dappled through the canopy, the quiet tenacity of a wildflower pushing through rocky soil . . . and the wind!
Oh! That wild wind up on the mountain!
My senses woke up. The sounds of the forest became my soundtrack, the cycles of the moon my clock. I felt connected, rooted, alive in a way I hadn’t been in years. It was in those quiet moments, sitting by the creek, or watching fireflies dance on a summer night (just like the little lights around that house in the painting!), that I started to remember who I was, stripped of all the expectations and criticisms.
“That’s Some Character-Building Shit Right There”
Of course, it wasn’t all sunshine and fireflies. It was a very TINY, tiny home. Three-hundred and twenty square feet, to be exact. There were plenty of moments when things went sideways. Between the monster spiders, the snakes on the porch or the family of field mice who had moved into my pantry, I was reminded that the city convenience was gone.
In those moments, I’d throw my hands up, let out a frustrated sigh, and hear my own voice, thick with a newly acquired Appalachian drawl, saying, “Well, that’s some character-building shit right there.”
It became my mantra, a wry acknowledgment that life, even in paradise, would always throw challenges. But this time, I was facing them alone, and every time I figured something out, every time I fixed a meal in my half-kitchen or outsmarted a mouse, I grew a little stronger. Each “character-building” moment chipped away at the fear and self-doubt that had been ingrained in me.
Helene’s Fury: A Test of Resilience
Then came Hurricane Helene in 2024. I thought I was ready for anything after everything I’d been through, but nothing truly prepares you for the raw power of nature. The winds howled, the trees bent almost to breaking point, and the rain came down in sheets, turning the beloved river as my lifelong neighbor, into a raging monster. I was away, handling daunting legal proceedings when she came knocking at everyone’s door.
I woke the next morning to realize the access road back to home was completely gone, swallowed by the overflowing creek and landslides. Weeks. For weeks, I was cut off. I worried for my friends and neighbors I hadn’t met yet. When I was finally able to return home, the devastation broke my heart into pieces. I had missed the worst part. I got to witness a community of beautiful people unite.
I had to leave that tiny home, surrounded by its firefly-lit nights and whispering trees. It was more than just a place to live. It was where I reclaimed myself. It was where I learned that even after the deepest hurts, love can bloom again, friendships can form, and the wild heart can heal, one “character-building” moment at a time. And sometimes, all it takes is a little cottage in the woods, far from the noise, to hear your own soul speak again.
This soft pastel painting, aptly titled, “Charming Stone Cottage on a Mystical Night,” draws you into a fantastical dreamscape, evoking feelings of peace, magic, and a touch of nostalgic charm. Rendered with the gentle, diffused glow characteristic of pastels on paper, the artwork presents a storybook cottage nestled in a vibrant, almost ethereal night.
The central feature is a sturdy, yet inviting, stone cottage. Its walls are meticulously depicted with varied shades of gray and subtle hints of blue, suggesting moonlit stone, with white highlights giving texture and dimension to each block. A steep, dark gray roof, also made of what appears to be slate or stone, adds to its quaint, classic appeal. Warm, golden light spills from the multi-paned windows, creating a welcoming contrast against the cool night and hinting at coziness within. The front door, a soft purple with an arched top and a small diamond-shaped detail, seems to beckon you closer, guarded by a small, lit lantern just above. A stout, stone chimney on the right side of the cottage suggests a hearth burning warmly inside.
The natural surroundings are just as enchanting. To the left, a lush green tree with a bright, almost glowing, yellow-green canopy dominates the upper portion, its branches reaching out as if embracing the cottage. Below it, large, rounded grey rocks are scattered across the verdant ground, some catching subtle hints of the ambient light. A path of grey stepping stones leads up to the cottage’s entrance, flanked by bursts of colorful wildflowers. On the left side of the path, delicate white and yellow flowers unfurl their petals, while further up, deep purple and bright pink blooms add splashes of vibrant color, all rendered with a delicate touch that suggests a dreamy softness. On the right, taller yellow and orange flowers stand proudly beside the cottage.
The sky above is a rich, deep blue, transitioning into a mysterious indigo and purple blend, suggesting the depth of a magical night. Scattered throughout this celestial canvas are numerous glowing orbs small, luminous circles of yellow and white reminiscent of fireflies dancing in the twilight or perhaps distant, twinkling stars made large and friendly. These glowing elements infuse the entire scene with an undeniable sense of magic and wonder.
The overall impression is one of serene fantasy, a tranquil escape where nature and magic intertwine. The soft pastels lend a hazy, dreamlike quality, making the cottage feel like a cherished memory or a place only found in the pages of an old fairy tale. Its a vision of mystical comfort, quirky charm, and whimsical allure, perfectly blending earthiness with an ethereal glow.
Watercolor & mixed media artist based in Kingsport, Tennessee. Reiki Master · Poet · Mystic. Intuitive healing art made for collectors, seekers, and wandering souls. ✦ "The art that finds you." Where whimsy meets paper — watercolor, gouache, acrylic, ink & soft pastels. Each piece carries intention.
