This House

I float in the hammock

Feeling the air move through my toes. 

I listen to the soft chirps of the finches

And the cawing of the crows.

 

She’s old, this house. Not ancient, not in any sort of a grand historical way, but she’s lived things. She’s seen things. Things I will never know.

Her foundation is strong. She’s sturdy, even after all these years. Even after being unloved for so many, if not all, of them.

I love her, this house. Or rather, I’m learning to love her. She’s not perfect, you see. Not even close. She has aches and pains and some deep wounds from being unloved for so many years. 

I hope she knows it wasn’t her fault.

She’s not grand, architecturally speaking. She doesn’t have any particularly defining details. And her floor plan is quite pedestrian. I want her to know, though, that she can just be who she is. That being here - being my home - is enough.

That I will love her even when she breaks a little.

And that she really is magnificent in her own way. She doesn’t need to be anything other that what she already is to be loved. 

I feel her come alive more and more as she gets the love she’s been craving for so long.

 

The birds sing to her.

She’s wrapped in flowers now.

The sun sparkles its way through her new windows

And the walls glow in the golden hour.

 

She holds onto her old parts just enough to keep herself together until she is given new. She waits patiently, this sturdy girl, like she’s waited for many years. She waits like she’s just beginning to trust love for the first time. She waits like she knows she won’t have to hold onto her old parts much longer.

And I can feel her age becoming increasingly irrelevant. 

 

“Youth,” she says “is a merely state of mind.”

 

I watch the bees dance around the cucumber blossoms. 

The hearty hydrangea leaves flutter in the breeze.

The squirrels chase each other through the fruit trees, taunting each other with the peanuts I just tossed out to them for a snack. 

And I agree with her.

 

Beauty is being loved.

Beauty is being seen.

 

Does she love herself, this house? Does she even know what self-love is? 

“Yes,” she whispers “but I’ve forgotten how after being neglected for so long.” 

 

I tell her she’s not beautiful when…

She is beautiful now. 

She’s not loved when… 

She’s loved now. 

 

She listens. And little by little she comes alive with all of her inherent love and beauty. In this moment, I suddenly realize she is very, very wise. And that somehow, in me loving her, she has so much more to teach me.