Note to our treehouse host

Peter,

The morning we left your Airbnb abode I wrote in your guest journal a smidgen of thanks and praise for being the host of the most. Feeling the pressure of an impending flight, I didn’t express myself as well as I wanted. Please accept a redo…

Dear Peter,

I believe the universe conspired to bring me and Angela to your enchanted treehouse. Like you said, it’s booked through 2019, but I stumbled upon your place (in a city I had no desire to visit) while on-line last summer,saw availability and booked immediately. The universe then challenged me with an email alerting me to a processing error, asking me “are you sure about this?”.

Hell yes.

My husband wasn’t keen on a trip to Georgia or spending 48 hours in a tree, but I knew with quiet confidence that accompanied or alone, I would experience an Autumn retreat. Days later, listening to my dear friend’s excited banter about tiny houses, I mentioned having a treehouse rented for a weekend in October. She asked, “not the secluded intern tree house in Atlanta?”

Exactly that one. I had my travel partner.

As you know, she drove from Texas, retrieved me at the airport, parked the car, and we only got in it again to return to the airport.

The time in-between was the most magical and healing time I’ve experienced in many years. The nest you’ve created with trust, vision, earth-love and the discerning eye of a man raised antiquing with his mother at flea markets held us safely in its pockets. Spending 40+ hours cradled in mother nature’s arms, while at the same time enjoying the amenities of home, was a gift we cherished every single moment.

When during the tour of the treehouse’s three rooms you shared their names, body, mind and spirit, rivers of chills coursed through my body, only to amplify and chart new courses as the weekend progressed.

We immediately felt protected upon being introduced to the Old Man, the 160-year-old, enormously tall pine around which the room spirit (our meditation and yoga deck) was built.

Body was the cottage-like bedroom, housing the most comfortable mattress upon which I have ever slept. There, with the bed rolled to the deck under the open sky, I willed myself to stay awake as long as possible in order to savor the cool night air gently tickling my hair, the radiant warmth of the heated mattress and the night sounds of the forest. This was a near camping experience like no other.

We enjoyed most of our delivered meals and wine (thank you, Postmates!) in the Swiss family Robinson meets Sundance room christened mind. Here we read in the stack of journals on the table stories of past travelers, lovers and friends who have retreated to the charm of your creation. Here was also where we sipped morning coffee on the tiny balcony overlooking the creek while watching the squirrels scamper and searching for owls whose hoots we heard the night before.

Just as essential to the experience was the feeling of being taken care of. To be awoken by the tinkle of a small bell, knowing that meant you’d left the coffee and tea you’d prepared for us in a small basket at the property’s edge was warming to both our souls. I can’t possibly know if you make every guest feel as welcomed and valued as you did us, but it seemed we only had the urge to ask you a question and it would be answered. Thank you for showing us the parts of Atlanta that I’m sure very few visitors get to know.

This blessed abode beckoned our friendship to deepen as we bore witness to each other’s insights and discoveries about the earth, humanity, mothering, partnering, adulting and each other. Sure, friendship can deepen anywhere, but the backdrop, built upon seven ancient pines offering refuge to weary souls amplified our journey. The luxury of two days of story-telling, (Oh, how great the power of telling our stories!) looping back to pick up threads set down hours or days before was a blessing made richer by our surroundings.

In your trees we swapped stories, how-to’s and book titles, but more importantly, we celebrated the magical powers of the divine feminine within ourselves and we felt the presence of the divine masculine holding space for our growth.

Thank you, Peter, for more than you’ll ever know.

I look forward to next time,

Katie

Raising sons

I got my hair done on Friday. This is a luxury I didn’t often allow myself in the past, but blessed be the wiry, gray curlycues that started sprouting, now I get pampered regularly. And lucky me, I’ve made a new friend, to boot. While brushing out my mane, my mother-of-two-girls and pregnant-with-a-boy hair stylist shared with me that she’s terrified of raising a boy. There is the issue of outdoor plumbing and all the foreignness that it entails, but even bigger than questions about circumcision and adolescence, she quoted Gloria Steinem to capture her unease:

We’ve begun to raise daughters more like sons…
but few have the courage
to raise our sons more like our daughters.

Continue reading Raising sons