Before the compass, before the legend, before ink kissed vellum, there was a whisper in the mind, a child tracing the rim of a pond with a stick, a sailor dreaming of land beyond the fog, a grandmother pointing to a place that no longer exists, except in memory. Maps are not just coordinates; they are confessions. They tell us where we’ve been, where we ache to go, and what we dare not name. Some are drawn in blood; some for pleasure; some for real purpose, whatever that may be.

This group is not a course in 'Map Reading'; it is an opportunity to explore all that a map is or represents. It will begin not with facts, but with thresholds, with the idea that every map may be a myth in disguise, a story to be told, a representation of what is or once was; that somewhere, just beyond the edge of the known, your own cartography waits to be drawn.