Sometimes, when I am dreaming, in the far reaches of my mind, I see a treehouse. And not just any treehouse; the PERFECT treehouse. It's a tall, broad shouldered oak tree that seems so wise and knowing, that my trust in him does not falter. The wood of the house is lovely and smooth, weathered only slightly, but young and fresh, full of knowledge from it's previous life as a tree. The house and the tree are one, and I pause for a moment and smile, knowing that the tree-house is my friend. My place to escape. My lifeline. Whatever I am encountering in my dream, the tree-house is my refuge, my constant. I can scamper to the beautiful, knotted trunk and up the rope ladder as the beautiful scents of cinnamon and spice swirl around me. The windows are slanted a bit, but sturdy and free, with breezy pinwheel curtains welcoming me with good cheer. I peek through the window to see if the battle from my dream rages on across the plains, but I see nothing and feel no fear. I have come home to my treehouse and I love it here.