I look at a picture of the old homestead, home for my first 17 years, and my from-place forever. I see a tree, and out tumble thoughts of trees climbed, Christmas trees fetched from the woods, a tangled blow-down in the Adirondacks that I crawled through. I see a barn and recall chilling fires of barns burning (none ours) in the country on otherwise dark, dark nights with brilliant stars. A roof evokes real roofs I've been on, in circumstances legitimate and questionable, and roofs that as a kid I fantasized sprawling on while doing my math homework (but never did).
On the other hand, 'climbing' evokes ladders, mountains, pyramids, and fire escapes. And then to tastes and smells, or a vast number of things red. Or prickly. Or broken. And 'broken' brings me back into the picture and to mishaps with window panes. Oh, and speaking of mishaps ...
Here are travelogues from a few meanders. More may yet become documented and, given enough rocking-chair time, I may pry open doors to surprising "new" territories of the labyrinth.