The room is warm. I wake up in a feather bed with quilts and sunlight streaming in from a window...but not onto the bed in my eyes...but just enough to keep the bed dark if I want to go back to sleep, or to light the room enough to look around. There is someone next to me, still asleep. It is a log cabinish place, with a rocking chair...very much a feeling of this is right where I should have woken up. An unfinished book is by the side of the bed.
The path in is lighted at first, the trees are tall and beautiful. Thinner at the front and thicker and darker towards where I can see the path as you move into the forest.
The path is clear but narrow, darker and you cannot see where it is leading or the end as it disappears into the forest and darkness. Not foreboding, just gives the impression that to follow it will be a definite journey, not to be taken on a stroll, but with a purpose and supplies.
It is a lake. with a glassy clear, reflective surface, but every now in then with ripples that imply the movement and the hint of something deeper within that is stirring.
It is a delicate teacup, porcelain and looks completely out of place on the path. It looks aged, but in a loving way, that someone has used it with tenderness and care respecting its delicacy, yet not just leaving it to be admired, but used for what it was made for.
The key is an old fashioned key that looks like it goes in a door that would be large and heavy.