Our house gapes at me from the far side of the lawn, its aluminum storm windows reflecting an air of doubt and boredom. Must I explain myself to a 1930’s Tudor? Okay, this is my story. I am in a makeshift temple in my back yard. These are the boundary lines: a rusty chain link fence on three sides that separates my property from the neighbors’ and a patch of English ivy that fills the little woods from side to side and top to bottom; I always sit in the ivy under the white pine, never in the grass.