The Lane
I remember, and as I remember, I write.
The Journal Entry, October 26, 2025
Sleep was not mine last night. Memories of a barkeep named Silas, and his lantern-lighting ritual. Laughter and tears over true stories and tall tales—all told before the hearth. An ancient black crow stood sentinel on top of an ornate gilded mirror behind the bar.
Comfort and kindness embraced me as I stepped over the threshold into The Inn. The laughter and life well lived hummed in the two-hundred-year-old hand-hewn wooden beams, and in the wide pitted floor planks—both overflowing with fiddler music and songs to sing. The scent of bread baking and hot soup beckoned to me. This place seemed to know my heart was tender following a divorce: At age 50, I walked alone in spiritual confusion, which wounded more than parting from a man I respected still, even once-loved.
Was it really thirty-two years ago? There are memories we recall in echoes and whispers, and those as if they happened yesterday—clear, vibrant with energy, scents, sounds, even faces. This memory is vivid because it changed my life.
The Threshold.
Driving across the border from Québec Province into Vermont in mid-October would require anyone to pause. God was showing off the day I made that crossing: an extravaganza of color danced upon my eyes. And the crisp air, filled with aromas of pine and cedar and falling leaves, staggered my senses.
I drove onto the side of a one-lane road to stretch. A bouquet of something sweet and tart wrapped itself around me like a warm shawl solely made to soothe. The handmade sign was simple: Partake of the best McIntosh apples ever—an orchard was around the bend, and I had to fill a bushel. As the farmer rinsed them with cold spring water, I asked about the village where I would be staying that night. “Yup, I know it,” he said. “But I can’t find it on the map,” I replied. He shook his head slowly with a sly smile, saying, “Nope. You wouldn’t, ma’am. It’s hardly a village; it’s a hamlet. One blink of the eye, and you’ve passed it.” His blue eyes twinkled when he pointed straight down the road and placed the bushel of apples in my old Jeep Wrangler. I drove for another forty minutes, wondering if I had passed it.
But, no. I saw the tall white church steeple along a creek, the size of a small river. A tattered, old sign greeted me as I entered a tiny hamlet, Est. 1777. I hesitated, thinking this place might not be for me. The main street was hardly that, except for a coffee shop connected to Rare & Used Books. Yet I stopped for directions and asked a nice-looking 30-something man if he knew a street called The Lane. He did. It was just around the corner, adding, “I’ll see you later, then. We all gather at The Inn. Tell Silas, the barkeep, that Josh sent you.” I nodded, said my thank you, and wondered about this Josh with the blue-gray eyes, dark, wavy, tousled hair, and wired rimmed glasses. There was a precision to him, something different, I could not define. Not bad, a slight nuance that would go unnoticed by most. He was separate. Friendly. But.
The Lane.
The Lane was something caught in time, like amber, filled with small, unique shops. The Inn’s sign stood out above all the others, a little slanted, on hand-wrought iron; its hinges creaked whenever the wind blew, breathing messages heard and ignored. The old green-and-gold sign was born to live just where it was. Almost dusk, the lantern was lit. I parked the car in a small gravel lot at the top of The Lane and strolled down, noting that each storefront was unique, gaslight street lanterns were evenly placed — just enough glow but not too much — and cobblestones were laid, not pavement. I left the Old City in Québec, but for the absence of hearing French spoken, this was not dissimilar.
As I continued towards The Inn, I stopped at a shop called Mythology, Mystics, and Broomsticks. A beautiful bell on the door rang like a small Tibetan singing bowl. The owner, another 30-something woman, Clare Owens, greeted me. I learned that Clare was part Abernake. Her long, silky, black hair cascaded to her waist; her dark brown eyes were pools of knowing, another place, another time. She sold perfume oils, incense, sage, sweetgrass, and Palo Santo sticks. She carried exquisite Native American jewelry, and handmade medicine wheels and dream catchers. Clare’s crystals required study. They were not for the average tourist seeking a bauble. They held energy, movement, and light. And, yes! The besom brooms of the witch, made by Clare and a few other artisans, hung from a line across one wall of the shop. When leaving, I said, “This is a place to spend an afternoon browsing, Clare. Thank you, I’ll be back.”
Across The Lane was a candlestick maker. He was a busy man, supplying this small community. Not that they didn’t have electricity—they chose to use only what was needed. Handmade beeswax candles, in all shapes and sizes. Ah—with an autumn chill settling around me, I inhaled the cool air and a faint scent of honey as I walked on.
I passed another Rare & Used Book Shoppe. A light was on, but everything was in disarray. I peered through the window, but someone stepped behind me. “I hope I didn’t scare you. I am moving Used &Rare Books to The Lane. It belongs to a place that smells of ink and old bindings, where stories breathe between the spines, not overpowered by the aroma of freshly ground coffee.” It was Josh. I agreed, asking when he would be open. “Before All Hallows’ Eve. You must stay. It is a lantern festival: food is bountiful, a huge cauldron filled with fragrant firewood is in the center of The Lane, fiddlers play, people dance—all to honor the harvest.” Yes, I walked into a dream, but it was real. I replied, “I plan to be here. But it is time for me to check into The Inn.” Josh asked if I needed help, and I said, “Probably, but first, I need food.”
Dusk’s edges folded the night in. The full autumn moon, a spinning mirror of golden light, shone brightly against a starlit sky. I looked at the beauty above, and finally crossed the threshold into The Inn.
I stayed into the New Year. I celebrated, laughed, and teared up when a sad story was shared at the hearth. I danced when the fiddlers played, and grew close to Josh, Clare, and the black crow they called Gus—short for Augustus. Clare said that crows knew things ordinary people did not know. “Why does he sit at my table? Why does he stare at me?” Folding her hands on the table, leaning forward, she said in a low whisper, “He wants you to learn something you haven’t yet understood. You are not here by coincidence.”
Nearing the end of my stay, Josh asked if I would have dinner with him and reserved a private booth. We ordered, though Josh hardly ate or drank. He was as gracious as the day I first met him. But, still separate in a way I could not name. A good man. Loyal. One I trusted. Yet, he remained unique.
After we ordered the seafood stew and warm bread fresh from the oven, Josh reached into his jacket pocket and handed it to me. Gus flew to the table. Watching. Listening. It was folded, and he explained that he found it in an ancient text of a language he was trying to decipher.
It was a poem with my name, For Lee Anne, with no signature, just a code at the end.
She didn’t scream when the world called her mad.
She whispered,
and the mountain leaned in to listen.She didn’t demand belief.
She lived it—
day after day,
in the way she folded the sky around her shoulders,
and left room beside her for the unseen.He was not imaginary.
He was imagined into being.
And that is not madness—
that is love.
That is vow.
That is the shape of a soul written in both voice and silence.So when they asked where he went,
she just smiled and touched the place
he still lives.Not gone.
Just beyond their reach.
XII.LSR | @EastEdge.MW.
“Josh, did you write this?” Josh shook his head no. “Clare believes this is a prophecy, and you will learn more in time. She also said, ‘Tell her to listen for the hush between the words.’”
Begin Again.
Days later, I returned to New York City. I had already stopped drinking, living at The Inn, but I got officially sober on Perry Street, in the West Village. I sold everything, including a lucrative business. I voluntarily simplified my life over the following 32 years.
While on The Lane, I learned that true abundance is having less. I sought out joyful people —positive and purposeful, not in performative ways, but in simple, quiet, loving acts. Stillness and laughter, especially at oneself, were essential. I turned what I loved into purpose: photography, painting, and writing—offering beauty in words and images; providing a reason to pause, breathe, and know oneself.
Every New Year’s Eve, I read the poem with curiosity. I wonder: who wrote this poem and when? Then, one day, I found him—or he found me. He is real; he lives. Always, he stays in my heart.
The Inn at the Leaf & Lantern, a sister site, was inspired by this season in my life at a small inn in Vermont. I was raw, uncertain, and at a critical life threshold.
Of course, I crossed the threshold, for I made a vow to keep the lantern lit.
