We wound our way through the tamarack, maple, birch, cedar and pine of North Idaho, where the fog filtered the light of the morning, creating a dream-like drive. Cool, crisp and misty. The road turned to dirt and the trees softly opened up to a clearing where a tiny cabin snuggled up to the edge of the trees and a campfire was burning.
We gathered around the fire and listened to him describe his life's passion: His library in the woods, hand-built from mostly salvaged materials, in what he described as his installation, a living work of art, and he, the artist. Each book added to his library likened to that of a painter, adding brush strokes to a painting. One by one.
The library sits above the meadow, facing the swimming pond below,
the tiny cabin (living quarters),
and wildlife pond, where the spring-fed water runs so deep and cold year-round you don't dare take a dip.
Entering the library, the rest of the world is left at the door. No need for phones, computers or time. This is a place to lose and regain oneself.
Where one cozy room tumbles into the next, and so on, and so on, and so on.
What is it about an artist that inspires? Can the world be better because of one's creations? What if we treated and lived our lives as if our days were our life's work? I think we lose sight of that sometimes.
Library (left) and cabin living quarters (right).
Adhere to your purpose and you will soon feel as well as you ever did. On the contrary, if you falter, and give up, you will lose the power of keeping any resolution, and will regret it all your life. ~Abraham Lincoln