The land I hold sacred – my place of refuge – my homeland, is on the Little North Fork of the Santiam River, in the state of Oregon. My parents bought it when I was about eight years old. From that time – wherever I lived – The Cabin has been my point of reference. The ground is familiar ground, trod by barefooted feet, raced about on bikes, explored, loved, known for almost a lifetime. The river has held me – in summer times and mentally in feverish times. The Vine Maple, Oak, Cottonwood, Dogwood and Fir have graced me into a green land of multi-wooded hues. I know where the deer rest in the heat of day and where they walk in the cool of night. Each step of the dirt road speaks to me of some aspect of my life – the baby bunnies darting into the ferns, the deer, ‘George’, who adopted me, the roosting of Turkey Buzzards – there is no nook, no cranny, no spring nor stream nor nestling of trees that I have not known and explored and learned from. I am possessive of this sacred land that has come to me from my parents. I am possessive, and in my possessiveness I realize that this land will not always be my land. Before my parents purchased it, it belonged to another.