The house

What passes besides time?

The clouds are full and rolling today, against a sweetly blue sky. I am off of work, sitting on the hard surface of the metel picnic table outside of the library, my trusty pup, napping with a hopeful stick between her paws. The american flag snaps gently in the breeze above me and a boy rides what looks like his sisters bike by, his red shirt contrasting the sparkly blue of the bicycle.

I am tired today. Tired of trying to figure out my life. I want to crawl into the cool waters of the ocean and float on faith, (and salt) free of these worries of right and wrong and the sometimes treacherous path to knowing what I want.

The beautiful thing about towns, are all the people, doing.
People shouting, and eating and listening and driving.
Going places, making things, finding delight or disgust in the people they interact with.
    Right now I feel like an invisible set of eyes, watching the lives of the people of my town as they live, on a warm sunday in May.

My thoughts carry me away from this moment,  away from this town and the flapping of the american flag above me. I travel to a place that breaths and lives among my soul all alone.


There was a house, I built it long ago, I've lived beneath its sturdy roof and slept on its hard wood floor. I've created this house, this frame for my dreams, for my projection of my future. I have lived behind the windows and filled it with my thoughts and the things I craved silently, almost secretly, too shyly to speak out loud, so they ran wild in my house, like muddy children running up the stairs, like dogs barking happily and sticky popsicle juice melted down the white enamel of the sink.
I built a house of dreams.

So much of my life has turned to ash, the greedy fire of change devouring so many of the things I felt were such a part of myself.

So much of this house is gone.

Yesterday I walked through it, the rooms are empty and the floors are swept, the glass in the windows is clean and no longer reflects the inside of the house.
It displays a clean frame for the outside world now.
I walk through the kitchen, my bare feet on the worn hardwood making a solid squeak.
I am the only sound in the house. No clocks tic to count time. No door bells chime.

The contents of my house of dreams is gone, all those things I counted on, are ash.
My house was first a frame, just to hold my dreams, but now all those things I half dreamt and half lived have flown away, like leaves in the street in the fall, lifted and blown into new landscapes and away from my world. But even though the dreams are gone, the house is still here, still changing, still steady, still real.


The ivy has started to grow up around the window, it's been left too long alone.
Emptying it's self. Dying. Transforming.



I want to be ready to let go. To stand in the doorways and see the empty rooms, floors swept and white walls empty.  and instead of seeing the things that used to fit there, the white mirror reflecting faces turned toward each other, lit by the glow of the midnight moon, or the green glass lamp we'd turn off before climbing into that big double bed. I want to be inspired by the empty. By the potential for new dreams, for new colors and new voices to fill its deep hallways.

     We are all like old houses, we get built and burned out, we get remodeled, and repainted, the people who fill our tables and beds and rooms, move, but they leave their markings, their names and dates drawn in our cement porches and pateos, they leave their stories, their lives lived, with us.

I sigh, but I move towards the stairs and climb, up and up, the wood gentle beneath my feet, and finally I reach the top and there is a new door.
It's painted bright blue like the sky outside.
I smile, my house is strong, it's growing to fit the new dreams that I will dream.
I turn the handle gently and push open the door.
Sun beats down in long shafts from the tall windows and bathes the polished hard wood in warmth like honey. A breeze flirts with the white window sash. And there in the middle of the room is a table, full of images and bits of paper, scissors and paint.
A place to pick and choose the things I will want again, the things I already dare to dream about.
 

A part of me thought I could never live in this house again, never fill its rooms or love its windows for the woman I used to be behind them. But this house, just like me changes and we are both strong, even when, especially when, we are left all alone.


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