Lady on the hill

 The meadow had danced through its colors. Then, as dusk fell, the fireflies dimmed their lights. Next, dandelions were scattered by the wind to an unknown place. As autumn arrived, leaves brought color to the ground, joining the last few days before snow came to frolic in the meadow. This was the place she called home for years unknown.

She built her cottage high on a hill. There, she gazed at her meadow, which captured her spirit. She chose this life, distant from most, with only a few who understood peace and harmony  and were always welcome.

As winter arrived and her meadow was covered with a blanket of white, she sought the solitude and the quiet that the frozen months brought. With her snowshoes keeping her from sinking, she felt a kind of power as she walked on frozen water, so to speak, a silent conversation between herself and the spirits always nearby.

In the evening, sitting by the fire, she wrote in her journal, sharing what she did that day and wondering what tomorrow had in store. Would the snow keep falling, and did she need to chop more wood? Would she have to go into town, where her mere presence bothers the townspeople, thinking only of her as an old hippy who didn't leave the hill with the others whose visions faded?

She didn't worry about their faces or scowling looks as some held, memories of their trip up the hill decades ago. Some went on to become respected members of society, but never ventured too far from the hill.

She found everything she needed on her hill: a garden to feed her and spring water to quench her thirst. She made her own clothes and mended tattered material as nothing on the hill went to waste. She bathed in a horse trough sprinkled with wildflowers, and in the winter months she kept the trough inside, close to the fire, where she would boil water, basking in the warmth until the water grew cold and she smelled like the meadow on a spring day.

She thought of herself as a strong and peaceful woman. A child of nature who never gave up on her vision, as so many others did. She grew old on her hill and had to slow down a little, but she knew her limits as her body told her how hard to push herself. At eighty years of age, she still cut wood and walked the five miles to town. She mended worn-out clothes, ate from her garden, and never forgot to make entries in her journal.

Hikers found her on a sunny spring day. She had probably gotten too deep in the snow and fallen down with only her memories to keep her warm. Inside her cottage, her journal lay on the table with a note she had written. It read: "To whoever is reading this, please let my final resting place be here in my beautiful meadow." Sprinkle wildflowers on me and commit me to the earth as it was intended.

People still hike the hill and visit her grave as it has become a sort of shrine. The headstone read simply, The lady of the hill with no date of her birth and a guess of her age at death. If you pass by, you'll see a never-ending bunch of wildflowers surrounding the gravestone and a script that simply reads, "She lived her life on her terms, on her hill and found peace in a sun-kissed meadow."

Mike 2025