So in the interest of completism, here it is.
This tiny shack, the very picture of a true purist's definition of "hut", started life as my grandmother's potting shed. My grandfather carved it out
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In the intervening years blackberry and honeysuckle had invaded and filled the interior, along with bracken, lady fern, and infant trees, and the roof and wooden parts had rotted in places. Its concrete floor was completely saturated, covered with standing water and mud from infiltrated silt.
I really didn't need a place to sit, as the house – high on a bluff above the grey Pacific, with few neighbours –
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So I set-to, and after a lot of concentrated effort and scrounging of materials, ended up with this serviceable little squat. I even once sat an all-night sesshin there, hoping to glimpse the bear that left scat in front of it. (I didn't, but I did learn, not for the last time, that spring nights on the North Pacific are bitterly winter-cold.)
So here it is, my own hermit hut. Or to be perfectly accurate, my monastic playhouse. It might not have been strictly necessary, but I learned a lot of Zen there.
Very nice, good work there.
ReplyDeleteHuts, close spaces like that I believe, are healing places.
Had a hut at the farm. Moved to town (leukemia and such), have a hut here too. https://photos.app.goo.gl/n3c1WnUgJcrzKF6G2 _/|\_
ReplyDeleteLooks great! Awesome photos, too.
ReplyDelete