“Michael wants you to visit him at his cottage,” Glory said.

Glory had been my high school “steady”…Michael’s college sweetheart…now a good friend to us both…and the one who had introduced us.

It was three years later and I had come to love Woodstock. It was my weekend spiritually renewing escape from the heavy daily pressures of the ad biz and I cherished my time there. But, because I was just a Woodstock weekender and for various other mundane reasons, Michael and I hadn’t been in close touch for a while.

“What cottage?” I asked.

“Remember how Michael always talked about finding that perfect piece of land?”

“Yes…”

“Well, he found it.”

“You’re kidding!”

“And he built a cottage there…by himself.”

“He’s really amazing. Good for him,” I said.

“He mentioned that he’d like you to visit. Now would probably be a good time.”

And so I walked to the path leading off of Glasco Turnpike near Ricks Road that Glory had directed me to.

First, I passed through a meadow filled with wild flowers. The tiny path then led into a dense mature wood populated by maple and oak and hickory and birch and willow and hemlock and pine…and other stately and graceful varieties, which I didn’t recognize.

The path then led over a simple handcrafted wooden bridge beneath which rushed a gurgling, sparkling mountain stream. There was then another bridge over a smaller stream and just beyond it a huge glacial boulder beneath a towering ancient hickory, beside which had been placed a charming Dutch chimney top. “A perfect meditation spot, Michael,” I thought.

Ahead I saw that there stood a rustic, but well-fashioned archway of branches and twigs…through which I could see what seemed to be a perfectly formed, single- gabled, Tudor-style French country cottage covered in hand-cut cedar shakes, with a lovely covered stone wishing well in front … in a yard surrounded by a low stone fence and containing three decorative circular stone ringed areas.

As I approached I saw that the cottage was facing a large meadow at the far end of which was a huge, picturesque old barn, beyond which was a breathtaking view of Overlook Mountain.

Incredibly, this was indeed the place of Michael’s dream: a piece of paradise.

Through the open top half of an ancient Dutch door, he called out for me to come in…which I did. He sat next to a wall of windows near an old Franklin stove.

“What do you think?” he asked sincerely.

“Well, it’s heaven.” I answered. “It’s everything you described to me the first day I met you…and more.”

As glanced around the main room, I noticed that the entire structure had been constructed using a treasury of varied very old windows of stained and clear glass through which the golden July afternoon light generously poured. There were virtually no walls…only those wonderful windows.

The room had a cathedral ceiling and was framed with heavy, solid, support timbers that were hundreds of years old and obviously strong enough to support a structure many times the size of the little cottage.

“How did you do it?” I asked.

“I found the land and it had everything I wanted. Then I pitched a tent here and began collecting things mostly from old churches that were about to be demolished. Here…take a look over here.”

He led me through a beamed archway to a rear area where there glowed a magnificent, stained glass church window that reached from floor to ceiling.

“Wow,” I said.

Then he unfastened two large, stained glass French doors that opened onto a deck from which we could see the woods, the meadow and the mountains.

“Wow,” I repeated.

He continued his story.

“It took me more than a year to collect all of the windows and the beams. Then I designed the house around them. It took me about another year to build it. The attached shed and the gable tower, I added later.”

We went back inside where I noticed a delicate staircase with a rustic polished banister and a branch for a newel post.

“It’s the bedroom. Go on up,” Michael said.

I gingerly ascended to the floor above into a tiny room where, once again light came in from all four sides. One view was into the meadow and beyond. One opened literally into the woods, where a bird chirped on a wild cherry tree close enough to touch right outside the window. Another view looked out at the huge main window of the living room and on the fourth side, there was a skylight. The only furniture was a simple platform bed and a small wooden chest.

“It really feels good up here,” I called down. “You’ve created something really special.”

I maneuvered down the staircase and Michael motioned me over to the table where he had placed fruit, cheese and some delicious water that had come from the pump in the wishing well.

“So,” he said. “You like it here.”

“It’s incredible,” I said. “So peaceful. So beautiful. So quiet.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad because I want you to buy it.”

I was stunned. Then I laughed.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“But this is your place! You dreamed it. You built it piece by piece with your own hands with precious material that you collected. You cut each shingle by hand! It’s a perfect spiritual spot. Sorry, I don’t believe you could give it up.”

He looked at me earnestly. “I’ve learned a lot here,” he said. “About dreams and about myself. I learned the great spiritual satisfaction of building my own home, my own way on my own land. But, I also learned that when you build a place of retreat and live in it, rather than retreating to it…you cut yourself off from the world…and that’s not healthy. What began as blessed solitude has now become a threat to me. I have to move back to town and be with people again.”

“You, on the other hand,” he continued, “need a place that you can retreat to and think and write. Someplace outside the city and its complications, where you can regain your spiritual bearings. This will be a good place for you.”

“But,” I said.

“I’m leaving here today,” he interrupted. “You’re moving in today. I know you’ll be happy here.”

And he did move out. And I did move in. And I did buy Michael’s house. And I did spend many, many happy years of weekend spiritual refreshment there. My daughter gained a priceless perspective of peace growing up there. Her sweet sixteen celebration was there. My wonderful wedding to my wonderful wife, Carol, took place there. I am so grateful for every precious hour that I spent in the cottage.

And now, it is time for someone else.

Carol and I live in a “real” home in Woodstock; my daughter is now grown and successful and has her own home in New Jersey. I visit the cottage only to maintain it. And, that’s not how it should be.

I will find someone for whom Michael’s cottage (for that’s what it will always be called) is “the perfect place.” And they will be happy there.

We all need “a cottage.” It doesn’t have to be a real little house by a meadow. But, all of us need a place to go where our souls can reveal themselves and not be ignored. Where we can dream of what could be.