French la Vie

It’s a place not touched by time. A piece of childhood still stitched into the now. A kind of freedom most don’t even know how to name.

And here it is. Ours. Still. Thankfully, as the summer has been brutally hot.

We live at the base of a forest. Just there, not far at all, a spring rises—clear and cold, from deep in the earth. A natural source. Cold fresh water instant relief.

Cool water, tree-shade, the aroma of pine.

Childhood the way we dream about…

Children ride bikes down the dusty path, drop them without a care. Sandwiches unwrapped on sun-warmed, dappled rocks.

Tadpoles caught in cupped hands. Dragonflies chased through tall grass. Sticks turned to boats, to swords, to nothing at all.

Where children can be in their daydreams—so deeply they enter into the world of childhood magic.

Dams built with patient hands and muddy feet. Little pools made for swimming, splashing, dreaming.

The freedom to be.
The space to explore.
The kind of summer that dreams are made.