THERE ONCE WAS A VILLAGE

The village, though it may no longer stand as it once did, still lives on in a way that unsettles me, in the stories that feel half-remembered, in the faces that seem familiar yet strange, in the shadows that stretch longer than they should.

‘There once was a village’ is not just a title — it’s a portal to a place where the line between memory and reality blurs, where the comforting warmth of home has given way to a cold, unsettling stillness.

It’s a reminder that the past is never truly gone, but lingers, just out of reach, in the spaces where lost dreams and forgotten fears quietly sleep.

As a 7 year old I drew this fragile house with a solid red table. And then there’s the cactus — how strange it is, with its sharp spines, standing in stark contrast to the walls around it. Does it fiercly need to protect itself in a place where the boundaries are so porous? Is it because it knows the walls won’t always keep out the harshness of the outside world? Maybe I got pricked by the cactus, and that’s why I felt the need to draw it. Perhaps it was nothing more than that.

45 years later I see something deeper, a recognition that true safety isn’t found in the walls we build, but in the resilience we cultivate within.

Perhaps the thin walls and the cactus with its sharp spines are a reminder that safety is not about creating perfect, impenetrable barriers, but about finding a way to live fully and beautifully within the imperfections. Could it be that our true sense of place is not in the strength of our defenses, but in our ability to thrive within them, to find peace in the knowledge that even in a world full of risks, we can still bloom?

I know what can happen behind doors. The things that remain unseen by the outside world, the words spoken in hushed tones, the tension that hangs in the air like a heavy curtain. It’s a place where secrets are kept, where the truth is buried beneath layers of smiles and small talk.

And yet, I once was the one who carried those secrets, who bears the weight of what no one else can see. The door, though bare and unadorned, held so much power over me. It’s not just a door; sometimes it’s the threshold between the world we present to others and the reality we live within.

For a long time the path felt endless because I was not ready to face what was on the other side. Each step closer was a step toward confronting the things I wished I could leave behind, the things that made the house feel more like a cage than a sanctuary.

Shadows are more than the mere absence of light; they are the silent witnesses to what we choose to ignore, what we fear, and what we cannot control.

As they creep, they suggest a slow, inevitable encroachment, a reminder that darkness is always present, even in the brightest of places.

Perhaps these shadows are not only external, but internal as well. They are the doubts, the regrets, and the memories that we tuck away in the corners of our minds, hoping they will remain unseen. Yet, like the shadows in the physical world, they move slowly, inching closer until they are impossible to ignore.

This sentence serves as a poetic reminder that darkness is an integral part of our existence. It is not something to be feared, but something to be acknowledged. For it is in understanding these shadows — both within and around us — that we can truly appreciate the light, and the complex, layered reality of the world we inhabit.

But, boy is this difficult or what?

In this place where lost dreams sleep, there is no bitterness, only a serene resignation.

It is a sanctuary of sorts, where unfulfilled wishes and unspoken desires find refuge.

But do these dreams ever truly rest, or do they continue to stir beneath the surface, subtly influencing our choices and shaping our realities?

Perhaps these dreams are not truly lost, but rather, they rest in a suspended state, waiting for the right moment, the right conditions, to awaken once more.

If they do awaken, will they return as they were, or will time and experience have altered them beyond recognition?

As I gaze at this drawing, the picture begins to reveal itself in new and unexpected ways. What I first took to be a red saucer is, a submarine.

Its bright color and unusual shape contrasting sharply with the natural forms of the parent and baby shark. What story is unfolding here?

Is there a relationship between these creatures of the deep and the man-made vessel that shares their waters? The big shark, drawn in strong black lines, brings a sense of strength and guardianship. Does it represent something beyond the role as a protector of their young?

To me it is a symbol of the primal instincts we all carry, the drive to protect and nurture in a world that can often seem unpredictable and dangerous. And what of the baby shark, following closely beside the big one — it could embody the innocence and vulnerability that we all once had, or perhaps still have, as we navigate the vast ocean of life.

Perhaps, like my younger self who created this scene, we are all trying to understand our place in a complex world, where the lines between the natural and the man-made, the known and the unknown, are often blurred. And in doing so, we seek to find meaning in the interactions between these forces, in the fragile lines that connect them and give shape to the stories we tell.

As I look at this drawing, I can’t help but be drawn into the strange combination of objects — a lamppost, a xylofoon, a table with spindly legs (or is it an orange cloud with rain?), and a bold red shape at the center.

What does it all mean? What is this red shape, so vivid and central, supposed to represent? Is it a creature, a feeling, or something else entirely? And why is it placed there, among objects that seem so ordinary and familiar? The lamppost stands tall, its light radiating in yellow lines, as if trying to push back the darkness. But does it succeed?

What does it mean to shine a light in a world that is otherwise filled with ambiguity and mystery? Can light truly illuminate all that we need to see, or are there things — like this red thing— that remain elusive, even under the brightest of beams? And then there’s the red shape itself, almost insect-like with its many legs, but undefined enough to also be a smoking hot sun.

What did this shape represent in my 5 years old mind? Is it a source of fear, a representation of something unsettling that lurks just out of clear understanding? Or is it a burst of emotion — passion, love, anger, perhaps, or frustration — captured in red lines? Does it say something about the things that cannot easily be expressed through words?

What can this unidentified shape tell us about our own lives, about the balance we try to maintain between safety and the unknown? Can we ever fully illuminate the red shapes in our world, or are they meant to remain mysterious, a reminder that life is never as simple as it seems?

What does it mean to feel at home in a world that is both familiar and strange, where light and shadow, certainty and doubt, coexist? Perhaps, like this drawing, our sense of place is something we must continually navigate, finding meaning in the interplay between what we understand and what we don’t, between the light we cast and the shadows that remain.

Walls are solid, dependable, meant to protect and enclose. But do they also confine us, keeping us locked within the boundaries of our own experiences and fears?

What lies just beyond those walls, waiting to be discovered if only we were brave enough to step outside? And how much of what we know and feel as 'our place' is shaped by the walls we've built around ourselves — both literally and metaphorically?

As we observe the grass beneath our feet, what memories does it evoke?

Is it the grass of our childhood, where we once played and dreamed?

Or is it the grass of a new place, a new chapter, where we must learn to put down roots and grow?

How does the color of the grass influence our perception of the world around us, and how does it shape the stories we tell ourselves about where we belong?

How many generations have walked this same path, their stories embedded in the very sand beneath my feet? What dreams did they carry with them, and what sorrows did they leave behind? Were they searching for a place to belong, a connection to something greater than themselves? Or were they simply moving forward, driven by forces they couldn’t fully understand? And what of their sense of place? Did they find it?

Just as glass can protect us from the elements while allowing us to see the world beyond, our sense of place can give us a sense of identity and belonging. But when that place is disrupted — whether by change, loss, or trauma — the echo of that disruption lingers, shaping how we relate to that space going forward.

Does this echo make us more cautious, more aware of the fragility of our surroundings, or does it deepen our connection, reminding us of the beauty and the pain that coexist within the same place?