A lonely gate stands in an unmowed field atop a small knob of a hill; its fence had long ago fallen victim to the brambles. I discovered this gate one warm summer evening on my daily walk through the country. I became intrigued by the simple beauty of its rough-hewn character, probably carved by a farmer a hundred years ago. The wood slats that made up the gate had faint Celtic carvings running their entire length. The wood had aged to a dull grey and was splintering on the edges. The closed gate compels me to open it. There is a sense of longing that draws me closer, and I follow, even with this out-of-place gate that has neither a closed side nor an open side. It stands freely, alone between its posts. I must see if there is a path on the other side. There is always a path on the other side. The path might be well-worn, or it is overgrown. But there is a path… always. Someone or something to follow creates a trail. Follow it, I will. There is one thing that must be done as a g