The bed is high off the ground and there are many covers. The room is only chilly enough to need to use part of them; it's actually perfectly comfortable. There are windows but because there is so much growth [trees] outside, it is a little hard to gain a sense of position or direction. There is food waiting; it looks good. Someone is listening to music in another room. Clothes are laid out to choose from. Books and magazines are within reach. All the furniture and decor seem chosen to reflect something about the owner of the room -- nothing is accidental or convienent, it's all meaningful and placed just so with intent.
This is an incredibly varied forest in that there are so many different kinds of trees. The height, breadth, and spacing of them differs greatly. Mostly, the sunlight reaches the forest floor and there's always a direction to look toward and see a generous amount of blue overhead even though that direction changes while traveling down the path.
The path seems to be mine to choose - as there are many forks one could take. Again, they vary - some well-worn, some freshly made. Some straight, some crooked. Some level, some climbing or decending. Since all seem appealing, I sort of regret not being able to take them all. On the other hand, because they all seem appealing there are no regrets to be had for just meandering.
I've come to a stream now aside the path. As is the case where there's a water source, things are lusher, greener. The stream cuts out a narrow but deep enough gorge that I know the stream has much more force and depth as the seasons effect it's capacity. There's a very simple rustic foot bridge across the little gorge. I cross it, enjoying the sensation of standing in a spot where the ground drops away from me on either side and I am suspended above it on a few pieces of worn wood. On the other side of the bridge, feeding the stream is a waterfall that seems to drop straight out of the strip of sunlight exposed between the dense greenery on either side. The waterfall drops into a pool that is amazingly still considering the velocity of the spill from above and the flow into the stream below. It's about 20 feet from the path. I walk over. I dip my hand in. Cold. I can't help but notice that the waterfall has cut a bowl as smooth as any man could design. It's got about a 7 or 8' diameter and is deep enough that sitting in the center-most spot would leave you submerged. It's faced on two "sides" by the vertical "wall" - one of which the waterfall tumbles down. To the other side is the spill into the stream. Behind me is the path. Despite the cold water and worries about who might stumble along, I know I have to get in and linger. I do.
There is a cup that seems carved as thinly as possible out of jade. It's pale green and polished. Light shines through it. Though it would seem brittle, by the design it is very strong and would only break with great force.
I see the key on the path. It is an ordinary, just-like-most-others door key. Yet the incongruity of finding it on the path in the middle of a forest makes it striking none the less. I wonder at the fact that it is a key. How did it get separated from the rest of the keys that fit into the life of the person who lost it here? More because it just doesn't belong there - the forest floor isn't a place for a key and the key probably belongs with all the other strays I have in the "junk" drawer - I pick it up. Keys are hard to just throw away, for some reason. So I put it in my pocket to add it to the other keys I've retired to shift around on the bottom of that drawer, even though it's not a key I've ever used. I'm almost glad to have found it. Though an inanimate object - I somehow feel sorry at the thought that it would just sit alone where it doesn't belong or be picked up by someone who would toss it away. Not having forgotten that it's also inanimate - the path seems happier to me, too.