Time, space, distance and other things being explained by quantum physicists are never as vivid as when one has to live them through the realms of emotion instead of through the world of the senses, the limited senses allotted to humankind. I have to leave a house for a while, not a play house, a real house for which I feel love and in which I have known love. A house which vibrates at times with the sound of music and sometimes with the feel of magick being lived and magick being performed. Even on a cold night such as tonight, the onset of autumn, the house is welcoming. Even at this late hour and all the folk within asleep, the house itself is awake and aware, as a witches´house should be and doubtless is.
In the cottage I have lit the first few logs in the iron stove and the smoke rises light and thin above the tree-line, attracting curious glances from the village below. I have set my copper kettle on it and soon thin steam should rise from my tea cup. I work on a quilt, a patchwork quilt which shall doubtless be finished before winter sets in. It shall lie on the bed in the guest bedroom, waiting for a worthy guest to lie beneath it. So few of my guests use the spare room, most are close enough to sleep beside me in my own bed, or not to sleep at all but at least to warm the night with their presence. Fitting host-price.
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