Fortress

And the news continues to be terrible: targeted shootings of police officers in Baton Rouge, Louisiana; a quashed coup in the country of Turkey; and now, the Republican National Convention, a scene of such vitriol and incessant criticism and bloviating, that I cannot even bear to look.

More than ever in these times, it is important to have a Happy Place -- a mental space of safety.

I am constructing a new Happy Place. It is slowly clarifying itself. Try to imagine it:

We will call it the Fortress. It is a stone structure, and yet, there is no indication that it was built by human hands. Rather, it appears to have been called into being by a vital, tremendous soul that has collected the stones and formed careful, thorough walls around itself. There are mosses on the some of the base stones; the mosses do not make the walls fragile, however -- instead, they are a sign of the willingness of the Fortress to bond with the terrain. The landscape is, as yet, undefined; I imagine Scottish moors.

There is no ceiling on the Fortress -- it opens to the sky. This is not because the Fortress is a ruin; instead, it is how it has been designed, to allow access to the stars and the cool winds and the calls of the night birds. Though roofless, it nevertheless provides comfortable alcoves of safety within.

Only the spirit of the Fortress lives within its walls. The Fortress stands tall, a little proud, perhaps, in the nebula of its environs. It does not seem particularly inviting at first. Nevertheless, it is a Safe Place, a place where -- if one finds the well-hidden entrance -- one can rest in companionable silence with the spirit of the Fortress. Gently, respectfully, place a tender hand on the walls. And in the quiet of the stones and the moss and the Milky Way, one can find peace.

It is a Good Place.

I should like to visit for a little while.