part the juniper. wander through the wood, follow the sun and stop when you meet the ivy-coated gates. knotted elms stand guard, their trunks and branches covered in scars, war wounds from soldiers hundreds of years past.

here it is green and lush and humming with growth - there is no pavement to singe bare feet and no cars or voices to break the silence, just the subtle song of flowers slowly pushing through the earth.

it is here you find yourself when hope has betrayed you. and against all odds, hidden somewhere between the sun and the stars, between a kiss and love, between beauty and deception, you've managed to find home.

and on that first night, as you settle into the soft moss ground, lay your head down and match your breathing to the earth's. it's easy here. because the trees bear scars too, and they see you, and they still think you're brave. because the sun peeking through their slightly oranged leaves makes you ache to have leaves too; to be able to sink your feet into the ground and stretch out your arms and fingers until they grow gnarled and beautiful like the trees.

because you can feel for them all here – the bees and the lilies and the snapdragons – and because you can, you don't have to feel for yourself.