Sometimes I need to clear away the chaos and confusion of medicine, so I walk down the worn path in our backyard (also trod frequently by children, dogs, cats, and deer). Sitting at the end of the path is the shop, which the kids and I helped a friend build. We helped set the foundations and nail the floor; we raised walls and put in roof trusses.
The shop sits in what was once a garden, but it was so soil-poor that it yielded more blackberries, brambles, and hornets’ nests than corn or beans. The best crop of the garden was a treasure trove of arrowheads and Native American pottery; what still lies there I can’t imagine, but it is evident that someone, some people, camped or lived in what is now my yard a very, very long time ago.
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