The Folly

When I used to go shopping in a store, in that way that we did before the pandemic, one way that I used to make sure that I really needed something as opposed to just wanting it, was to set in back on the shelf and prepare to leave the shop. If I got to the door without any qualms, I probably just wanted the item. But if I felt any sort of connection to the object, or was already thinking of what would happen if I came back later and it gone, then I would go back and buy it.

This reminds me of the adage that you only miss something when it is gone. I guess this is what I was simulating when trying to leave without buying the object in question.

And that brings me to The Folly. I have a treehouse on my land, hidden in a thicket of Hornbeam. It came with the property. I always thought of fixing it up and going up there to write in my journal or to have a cup of tea. But all I ever did was think about it. For a person who lives in the jolliest of places, I didn’t really think I needed a retreat. What was I retreating from? Thus, I called it my Folly.

You can only see it in the winter.

Otherwise it is hidden by a thicket of Hornbeam.

When my homeowner’s insurance company took exception to the treehouse and threatened not to renew my policy, I considered tearing it down, and called my handy person to do that.  He helped convince me to fight the insurance company. I realized I couldn’t walk away from the treehouse. I needed that treehouse, even though I had never enjoyed using it. All of a sudden, I realized exactly what was wrong with it and what I needed to do to make it right. It needed a new roof—dark green metal, to be precise, and it needed weathered grey clapboards rather than faded-orange painted plywood on the sides.  The windows needed to be clustered at the corner with the best view rather than centered in the walls, and that would make me love it. I convinced the insurance company that all they wanted was a locking door and the ladder not stored underneath.  I can be compelling like that, and they agreed.

So, my handy person confirmed that the framework was sound and that the changes I wanted were totally feasible. The lumber was delivered yesterday, and we are going to make this a perfect place for me.

In my tradition of Druidry, we are encouraged to have a simple hut so that we can take a retreat from modern life and be close to nature. Many people choose to build a garden shed of sorts. I plan to be up in my treehouse. It will be a simply-furnished space, with a writing table, chair and a sleeping shelf. I won’t even have a stove, as it is not a permanent home. The ladder will come home with me at the end of the visit, and I have this curious padlock in the shape of a fish. It’s from Thailand, and it was explained to me that fish sleep with their eyes open, so they are thought to guard your space. I bought that padlock at a point when I lived in an apartment. It was a promise to myself for the time I would be home again and have an outbuilding. That promise is coming true. I have been home for years, and the right outbuilding was there all along, but I had to pretend to walk away until I could see it for what is was. 

Now, the treehouse will need a new name, since it is no longer a folly.