Sometimes I imagine what my village looks like.

We all live in trees. Real ones. Tall, steady, rooted. Each of us has our own treehouse, built and decorated exactly to our taste. Some are lined with books and pressed flowers. Some are bright with paint and music. Some are quiet and spare, with just a desk and a kettle.

At night, the whole place glows with fireflies. No harsh lights. Just soft flickers drifting through the dark like the sky decided to come closer.

We grow our own food. Vegetables, fruit, herbs that smell like summer.

In this village, we’re vegan. Animals wander through freely. They are companions, not commodities.

Everyone has their thing.

If you want to know everything about flowers, you go to Nat Ink and Light by Nat Hale She will tell you which ones bloom in the dark and which ones survive frost.

If you need encouragement, you go to Neela Neela 🌶️ She has a way of looking at you that reminds you who you are when you’ve forgotten.

If your heart is heavy, you sit with Lydia Lydia Fox she won’t rush you. She’ll just listen until the weight shifts.

If you’re full of wild ideas at 2 a.m., you climb up to Lintara’s You know, Cannot Name It place. She always has tea and a notebook ready.

If you want to argue philosophy or question the universe, you head straight for the lighthouse.

At least once a week, we all gather there.

Family night.

We discuss. We debate. We build new thoughts together. No one is shamed for asking a bad question. No one is exiled for thinking differently. Disagreement is allowed. Dignity is assumed.

We each spend our days doing our own work. Writing. Teaching. Growing. Fixing. Dreaming.

But no one disappears.

Everyone belongs.