Introduction: The Valley

After a long search, as if guided by an unseen hand, I found my refuge. Not far from where I had been living and a stone’s throw from the spot where Washington and his men once braved icy waters, a cottage nestles in the folds of a steep valley. 

The valley cradles the house like cupped hands, its slopes bristling with sentinels of oak and maple. Thorny vines weave a living curtain, nature’s own act of defiance against the encroaching tide of suburbia. In this green fortress, time seems to pool and eddy, flowing at its own unhurried pace.

My new home – a stout French-style cottage – wears its age with dignity. Stone, cement, and weathered wood speak of endurance, of seasons weathered and stories untold. A previous owner, also tethered to a wheelchair, reshaped this space with empathy born of shared experience. Wide doorways beckon, thresholds smooth as river stones. Here, there are no barriers between me and the pulse of life beyond these walls.

Inside, oak beams bridge high ceilings, their grain maps of long-ago summers. Uneven floorboards creak a welcoming song beneath wheels that have replaced my feet. In every corner, oversized casement windows stand ready to usher in the forest’s ever-changing moods. Through them, I become a silent participant in nature’s grand performance.

The heart of the first floor beats in an open living room. A fireplace, hungry for winter nights, anchors one wall. Built-in benches embrace windows that frame the backyard like living canvases, each day a new masterpiece. Beyond, a stone patio blurs the line between dwelling and wilderness, an invitation I can no longer physically accept but one my spirit embraces daily.

My bedroom, a sanctuary within a sanctuary, boasts its own corner of glass. Here, an ancient Mountain Laurel stands vigil. Come spring, its eruption of pink blooms seems to spill through the windows, painting my dreams in hues of renewal even as my body whispers of endings.

The kitchen, with its second fireplace and floor of potter’s tile worn smooth by countless steps, has become my world. A wooden table before wide windows serves as my altar to life’s remaining rituals – meals taken, books read, words written, thoughts unfurled. It’s here I’ve spent most of my dwindling hours, bearing witness to the ceaseless rhythms of the valley.

Upstairs, under eaves that shelter memories like swallows’ nests, two bedrooms wait. One for my son, another for my daughters, now grown. These rooms, like the upper floor itself, have become a geography of the mind, unexplored by my wheelchair-bound body for over two years. They stand as monuments to a life once lived vertically, now experienced in the horizontal plane of remembrance and imagination.

The valley’s steep sides, draped in a tapestry of green, create a world apart. Here, the clamor of progress is muffled to a distant whisper. Save for the occasional silver thread of a jet’s contrail stitching the sky, little has changed since the first stones of this cottage were laid. The stream at the valley’s bottom, a vein of liquid silver, connects us to the broader world. It runs down to the Delaware, carrying stories of this secluded eden to the wider waters beyond.

This waterway serves as nature’s highway, drawing a procession of wild life to my doorstep. From my perch at the kitchen table, I’ve become audience to nature’s grand theatre. Foxes slink through dappled shadows, their russet coats flickering like flame. Wild turkeys strut with comical dignity, feathers iridescent in slanted sunlight. Raccoons, nature’s bandits, conduct midnight raids with dexterous determination. Skunks waddle by, their presence a pungent reminder of nature’s defensive artistry. Groundhogs emerge to bask in pools of sunshine, furry Buddhas contemplating the zen of clover.

On rare, heart-stopping occasions, black bears lumber through. Their passage leaves me breathless, a reminder of wildness that refuses to be tamed. The stream attracts its own cast of characters. Otters slip through currents like liquid joy given form. Great Blue Herons stalk the shallows, prehistoric patience personified, their strikes as swift and sure as summer lightning.

The air itself is alive, an ever-changing symphony of birdsong. From the liquid gold of a wood thrush’s call to the scolding chatter of blue jays, each voice adds to the complex score of the forest. A herd of deer, no longer startled by my presence, move through the yard like silent poetry. Their liquid eyes meet mine across the gulf between species, a wordless communion that speaks of acceptance – of their presence in my world, of my presence in theirs, of the inevitable cycles of life and death we all must honor.

Summer dawns unfold like a symphony of renewal. As night reluctantly loosens its grip, the colony of bats housed in my chimney’s trim returns. Their silent wings write dark calligraphy against the lightening sky. Then, as if cued by an unseen conductor, the forest erupts in song. A thousand feathered throats greet the day, their melodies cascading down from the canopy to mingle with the stream’s endless murmur.

It is here, cradled in this vibrant solitude, that I have come to meet my end. For the first time in my life, I find myself largely alone, yet more connected than ever to the pulsing heart of existence. In witnessing the endless dance of life and death playing out beyond my windows, I’ve found an unexpected peace. 

This cottage, this valley, this disease‘s relentless walk towards death, has become my teacher in these final days. In the turning of leaves, the flow of water, the cycle of seasons, I see my own journey reflected. Here, as my capabilities and sense of self steadily erodes, I am learning to embrace the new dawn with grace, gratitude, and a sense of wonder at the brief, beautiful spark that is a single life amidst the cosmic fire.