In reality, the house was rather small. But it’s enormous in accordance with the memories of my youth as it was the first house I actually remember calling home. Things always seem bigger and grander when the past is taken in by reminiscence under the disguise of myth.
In this home formed my years in Louisianna; it’s not about the square footage or materials on inventory but more about the scope of character. For this structure made of wood and mortar, blood and sweat, hinting of an eternal essence is a gift across time built by labor and love. The very dedicated personalities that toiled in its construction gave a part of themselves to this structures consciousness. What was once formless now has form. What was once a blueprint; an intention, is now a reality.
Physical properties can be renewed, walls can be painted but the essence needs to be open and felt as a warm breeze on a summers day. One can feel the house yawning, stretching its whole being; joints cracking and breathing as the dawn awakens to a new day. It’s been coming alive, waking from a long slumber, lying dormant without human inhabitants for some time, lacking a spiritual bond, as a king without a queen. The connection was sealed with the intention of time and situation. This house was expecting me as I was most assuredly searching for it.
Places we call home can illuminate and reconstruct the recollections of the past as it intermingles with the present and future. The walls, painted or papered are a collection of all that passed before and also a mirror of all that will come to be. Such are memories that embrace the framework as these revelations as well as yearnings; in good time will allow their discovery. This is the soul of what we call home and it melds with our soul. Death and rebirth occur all within the shadow of a memory, as we listen and learn to build the dwelling of a life.
*Image courtesy of Pixabay