My Valley...

My imagination paints an image again. This time, it sketches a valley — a quiet slope draped in fir trees, and at its foot, a lonely cabin. I step toward it, across a moss-carpeted path that feels like a doorway from another dimension, and in that instant, I feel peace — a stillness so pure, so complete, that it almost aches. A peace I miss in the noise of everyday life. A peace where no other world exists — only me, and this valley born of my imagination.

I walk toward the fir forest slowly, almost reverently. Beneath my feet, only moss — soft as velvet, fragrant with the breath of the woods. Above me, the trees sway gently, whispering to each other. The mountain lake lies still — its surface like polished glass. I look into it and see not my reflection, but the sky, and a few light, wandering clouds. There is no trace of me there — because I am not meant to exist in that reflection.

The valley’s silence trembles — somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls. Is he the ruler of this place? Or perhaps it’s the fox, wandering with purpose known only to her. Or maybe it’s the owl — mistress of the night — hidden in the branches, watching the sleeping valley. No. The true masters here are the mountains themselves, their peaks crowned in snow. And it matters little that below, the valley blooms with spring — or perhaps summer. Up there, high above, in what feels like the Creator’s own kingdom, the snow glistens with pearls and diamonds — untouched, unsullied by civilization.

You know, I often write about the valley. I love it. It’s where I find my peace. It’s where I draw strength — strength I later scatter and give away in small pieces to the everyday world. I dream of it constantly. My imagination takes me there by the hand, guiding me to gather the energy I can find nowhere else.

And you know what’s strange? I’ve never actually been there. But it brings me wild joy just to know it exists somewhere. Why? Because one day, I dream of going there. And dreams — they do come true, don’t they? For now, I let my imagination build that oasis of peace and bliss in a place I’ve seen so often in photographs. I feel its energy flowing toward me, from somewhere beyond reach. I let my imagination open the gates to my soul, filling it with the colors offered by the universe itself — the same palette that painted the valley: the mountains, the lake, the forest at the foot of the hill, the open meadows. And yes — that solitary cabin, whether inhabited or not, it doesn’t matter — simple, unadorned, and yet so alluring. It calls to me like an addiction.

With my eyes closed, I never want to return to ordinary life, because in the stillness of that valley, I hear myself best. I hear every thought clearly. I can send them out into the vastness without noise or interruption. They are always so pure, so open, so honest — so true. As true as that valley in the photographs, as open as the gates of my soul. I raise my hands to the sky and spin in the green meadow of the valley. The wind catches my laughter and carries it over the mountains, into other valleys, while the sun — shy but gentle — warms my cheeks, flushed by the clean mountain air.

I open my eyes and look at my hands — at the worn photograph of the mountain valley between my fingers. I smile at the dream and tuck it into my work diary. I rise to meet the day, but within me I still feel the dew of that early morning in the valley, the scent of trees, the echo of wild life stirring in the woods.

This is my valley. My sanctuary of peace. My rebirth from the quiet, constant downfall of everyday life.