She sighs each time I return, glad to hear my voice call out to her, “I’m here.” My relief is immediate – as soon as I open the door, serenity envelopes me, creating a safe cocoon that is mine until it’s time to get in my car and drive back to “reality.”
The energy here is distinctly maternal. I know the house is feminine because it would be impossible to feel so nurtured if the house were masculine. Through the years, she has never revealed her name to me, so I call her simply, “House.”
She loves me, the house. She knows I revere the strength of her walls and hold sacred the panned out places in front of the kitchen sink where a long ago woman washed dishes and babies while she looked out across the prairie.
The house isn’t MY house; if there is ownership, perhaps it is she who owns me, for surely she comforts me and brings me peace even when the world outside is a whirlwind of havoc. Like a dear friend, she offers me solace in times of trouble and shares my happiness in times of joy. Already old, she will be here to see me to my own old age one day, and when I leave this earth, she will be here waiting for the next soul seeking a home that is more than just a house.
Absolutely gorgeous.