Suppose (again) for a moment that it does exist—or that it could exist—a healing sanctuary or sanitorium or cure cottage devoted to healing. And say that at a moment when you most need such a place, when you truly need it, say that it happens that you can travel there by train. And say that upon arrival a woman is there, waiting.
This is how I imagine her:
She waits on the train platform, white hair pulled back in a sensible braid. She drives a van. Her dog, a large mutt—Miss Molly—rides in the back, with your suitcases, and, not to worry, she says, Miss Molly won’t be jumping up on your lap unless invited. She’s the kind of woman who seems aware of what the rules are—but not in an unkind way—and not without warmth. When she asks you a question she waits, interested—but not overly interested. How was the train ride? Are you at all thirsty? She points to a cooler between the seats. Several bottles of water inside, juices. Also sandwiches, and pears. Go on, she says, help yourself if you like. She knows how to make a person feel comfortable. There’s that skill in her, and an ease. The landscape rolls past. When you find yourself beginning to drift, she lets you sleep.
You wake as she makes the turn. The drive winds beneath a canopy of trees before opening onto a clearing. In the clearing sits a large white clapboard house with a porch across the front and substantial wings on either side. She parks near the door. Don’t worry about your bags, she says, someone will be out to get them.
You follow her upstairs and down the hall to your room: a corner room, warm now with late afternoon light. There’s a bed with a white comforter. A desk. A wardrobe. An armchair. She crosses to one of the windows and opens it out onto a balcony. You follow her out. Evergreens cast long shadows across the grounds. There’s a lake.
Dinner, she says, is at 5:30. You can come down to the dining room, or you can, if you like, ask for it to be brought up to your room. Either is fine. There’s a bag in the wardrobe for your laundry. Just set the bag outside the door and you’ll get your laundry back clean the next day. You can find a television in the sitting room downstairs, also a phone. A ping pong table. There’s a library that you’re welcome to borrow from, just be sure to sign the lending book. Breakfast is served between seven and nine. Lunch from eleven to one. When you’re ready to take a tour, she says, just let someone know downstairs at the desk.
There’s plenty to do here, she says, if and when you feel up to it. Walking trails. A swimming pool. Yoga classes. There’s an art studio. A spa where you can schedule a massage. Canoes and rowboats you can take out on the lake if you like. Several gardens. Even gardening classes. But, she says, don’t start thinking you need to be active right at the start. The first thing you want to look for tomorrow, she says, is the porch that runs across the back of the place. That’s where you’ll find the chaise lounges, each with its own quilt. You can get a nice view of the lake there, she says, and most days a decent breeze.
She asks you if you have any questions. She shows you a small refrigerator stocked with juices and bottled water. Your bags arrive. I’ll leave you to get settled, she says. Before she leaves, she turns at the door. You’ve got plenty of time here, she says. She says that twice. And then she says this. Pay attention. Just pay attention to what your body is wanting here. Pay attention to what your body needs. What your body likes. And try to do that.
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You might, of course, imagine her differently. You might imagine that she has an entirely different look—drives a different vehicle—that her dog has a different name—or maybe she has a cat instead—or rides horses. Perhaps in her cooler she carries peaches—or plums—you get the idea. She could, after she shows you to your room, give you an entirely different set of instructions----------
It’s the kind of thing you could write about.
