With the disappearance of the nomad hunters of the glacier age, the house became the symbol of the center of existence for the new sedentary. The house is then disposed most of the time according to cosmic orientations, houses as well as cities being built in relation to the stars.
The eldest houses in the world were discovered in Jericho and at Çatal Hüyük in Anatolia. They were built 6500 years B.C, meaning before the appearance of urban civilizations and contemporary to the development of agriculture.
The house then crystallized the beginning of civilizations. It became then the symbol of stability for mankind inside the cosmos. In Buddhism, the house is associated with the body, and one is supposed to destroy the roof in order to evade the material world of illusions.
In psychotherapy, the presence of house in dreams represents the very dreamer: the house can than appear as in construction, new, abandoned…
Now you take the floor: what do you associate with the house? Furthermore, if you were to describe yourself as a house – how would it be?
es mi mundo, mi manta, mi refugio; mi casa es mi familia, y con ella mi yo. la casa mía; la que comparto con lo que yo quiero y respeto. la casa es mi vida, al llegar a casa y cierro la puerta…estoy con los míos; con mi familia…mis hijos, mi marido, mis padres…mis amigos…o incluso yo sola estoy bien en mi casa, en mis olores, mis colores, mis cuadros, mis libros, mi música. mi casa es como una orquesta sinfónica. todo en ella es armonía. fuera…el peligro acecha. dentro, la paz invade los espacios.
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I think houses or domiciles of all types are highly symbolic. That they provide us shelter, warmth, and a place to hide reaches deep into our psyche. My favorite book about this is The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard.
Two places I have lived still feature heavily in my dreams: first is the wonderful Craftsman bungalow where I grew up in Los Angeles. It was well-designed, clutter free, and had an expansive front porch. The second is the wooden sailboat my grandfather built, the Windbairn. I spent many wonderful nights rocking to sleep in her bosom. What’s special about a boat is that it is a living dwelling. Not only can it roam the world, the wood itself is alive. My ancestors, the Vikings, were keenly aware of this. This knowledge informs their designs.
The pictogram for house shows up in many languages, and the hexagram is important in the I Ching. There is, apparently, no place like home.
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House
not too big not too small
a round window at the top
wooden floors and furniture
lots of light
roomy living room
a wood fire
near the water
a garden with flowers
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Paulo,
I forgot to tell you thank you for bringing me back to The House, this time without anxiety, I wish it could appear again in my dreams !
Love
Luce
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And if I were a tree I’d be oak tree !
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Dear Paulo,
It took me whole week to writeabout house.
Years ago I had a dream that was repeted every now and then, always same.
I was walking by the house, new, strongly built of white stones, with red roof and green closed windows, nearby I could hear strong waterfall and the mist of the water was enveloping me, The house and trees. Trees were high but bare and wet, I was walking by the side of the house towards its front but I never arrived in front of it, I woke up with anxiety every time before rounding the corner of the house, path and terrace in front of house were of ruvid stone tiles, terrace had balustrade !
For some 20 years this dream does not come any more, was that house myself, I never thought about it. I sometimes thought I saw or I shall see that house in reality, but reading your post it make me think of my past and if The House from my dreams realy represented myself as I was at that time.
If I were to describe me as house I shall be the house not tall but on different levels, with five or seven red roofs, with lot of windows with open green shuters (persiane), bathed in the sun, overlooking the see, under clear blue sky with just a few white clouds….if I look it realy good I do not see the entrance, I know there is one but from this point I do not see it, aaah yes there behind veranda !
Love
Luce
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How appropriate that I have not visited this blog in well over a year. I am currently in the process of purchasing my first home. It is a lovely little mid-century modern built in 1955 with a lovely patio and garden in the back. Overall, it has been well kept over the years; I will be the 3rd owner. I plan on doing some renovating to the little house. Maybe I will do some physical and spiritual renovating also.
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I remember a “house” in my city.Was a residence of Maria Theresa of Austria,is more a palace. The interesting thing is it has 365 windows,just like the days of an year.Sure,has a nice garden and there a cathedral,catholic.I my childhood functioned as a museum,and the garden was a park for everybody.Was fond of that place.Once I had a lover,we used to walk.I said to him as for a game,”Come ,I invite you to visit my house”…Since than we were calling it always that way”my house”.Would be nice,I should love to invite there many to open parties.
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Sorry I meaned “Gate of kiss”and most important for me will be a Water surse! like a fountaine or a small river etc.,near to my House.
Love,
Mirela (the woman in elevator)
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es un exelente escritor, muy buenos sus libros.
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Part III
When you awaken, there is a moment of confusion. It is dark. The shoji doors to the room you are in have been slid shut. A single lantern burns in an iron sconce that hangs from a chain, attached to one of the wooden beams in the middle of the room. The room flickers in warm shadows. It is sufficient light to see by. You sit up on the bed and place your feet on the tatami, facing now the closet at the opposite end of the room. The doors to the closet have been slid open, revealing its contents. Startled, you flinch, thinking for a fraction of a second that you are looking at the figure of a man staring back at you. But it is not this, not another person. You rise and walk toward the closet for a closer look. It is a human form alright, but not alive - it is, instead, a dress form, clad in what appears to be the full armor of a Samurai Warrior. Hanging alongside it in the closet, is a deep-blue, silk kimono, with a sort of overlay, in lighter blue, that has very wide shoulders. Beneath this is a pair of wooden sandals. Hanging on the wall of the closet, next to the armor is a sword. You cannot resist. You remove the sword from the nail on which it hangs, un-sheath it and run your fingers along the intricately carved, curved blade. Very sharp! “These are not toys,” you decide. This is the real thing. Undressing slowly, you leave your own clothes in a heap on the floor, and take the kimono down off of its hanger. It takes you several minutes to reproduce the effect it held before, everything it its proper place, the knot at the waist just right. You slip on also the socks and sandals. “Very comfortable,” you think. And the fit - perfect! Like it was made for you. Now, for the armor, which is much more complicated and somewhat difficult to decipher. Which piece goes where? And this strap - how does it buckle? This opening - is it for the head, or the arm? But, as you attune yourself to the process, something slowly comes over you - a sense of the familiar, a sense of having done this before. And finally, as you slip on the helmet - the final piece - something almost magical happens: this is at least fifty pounds of gear, and yet suddenly it feels weightless. You take the sword in your hand and turn to walk across the floor, and you feel as though you are verily floating on air. Following this feeling, you make a leap into the air, fling back your sword, and come down, both knees bent, in a defensive position. “This feels good - this feels right.” So you leap again, this time thrusting the sword forward, out in front of you - attack! So natural does every movement feel, so familiar, so right. You decide you want to try this outside, in the open air - more space, more freedom to experiment and play - so you walk to the shoji doors and slide them back, first the right door, then the left. You look up - the whole garden is lit - every pathway, every contour, even the edges of the pier and the gazebo, outlined in rows of tiny paper lanterns placed at regular intervals.
You place your sword back in its sheath, now attached to your hip, and step to the edge of the porch. Standing at the top of the steps you survey the beauty - the firey reflections on the water’s surface: the light of the lamps, mingled with that of the full moon, which hangs overhead. Even the pink of the blooms on the cherry trees is set aglow. But then you notice something else, that causes your heart to stop and skip a beat. Seated on a bench at the center of the gazebo, is a the figure of a woman, clad in a light blue kimono, almost exactly the same color as the moon up above. She does not move, and yet she is staring straight toward you. “Does she see me?” you wonder, “She must see me - how could she not see me?” And yet she makes no indication, no movement either toward or away from. She sits, completely stationary, like an apparition bathed in moonlight. She looks very much like one of the blue lotus’s floating on the surface of the water at her feet.
So, you take a deep breath and move to descend the steps, thinking, “I will go - I will introduce myself,” but in that very instant, before you foot can even touch down firmly on the first step, she disappears. Vanishes completely, as though she were never there at all. “Is this some sort of dillireum,” you wonder, “Am I hallucinating… Am I dreaming?” You stroll out to the gazebo to have a closer look, and when you arrive, you realize, it was not a dream: there on the wooden bench, lies a blue lotus, fully open and completely fresh, yet covered in dew. You pick it up and hold it up to your face. The scent is rich and heady, like tubaroses, yet far more delicate. That is the moment when you feel all sensation drain out from your body, all firmness leave your knees - you faint, and in fainting, you are falling, tumbling, end over end, head over heels, down, down, down, and further down still. You see your sword float up and past your head. You reach to grab it, but it slips through your fingers. Your armor, your kimono, the sandals on your feet - all coming off as you fall…and fall…and fall. “There are two more rooms,” you think, “- two more rooms that I have not visited….” And then there is only blackness.
When you awaken, after what seems like centuries, you find yourself lying face-up in the grass. The sun is high above your head. You sit up and realize that you are in the center of a meadow, surrounded by trees - at precisely the point where your adventure first began. You are not sure if it is the same day, or if many days have passed. But somehow, it doesn’t seem to matter. You turn your head and look toward the tree-line, and, yes, there it is! A small opening in the foliage that appears to lead somewhere….
(This house, and all her many forms and shadows, surprises and promises, is me.)
Savita
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Dear Ann,
I really enjoyed you post, reading of this house where “there are no doors, or at least they are always open.”
Yours, too, Matthew! This house wherein “all of the doors are different” and each room has its own unique shape, not necessarily conforming to the “norm” of the square.
I have been enjoying reading all of the descriptions, in fact. All very different, each so unique - just like us, as individuals. Wow! What a wonderful exercise - this challenge of imagining oneself as a house.
Thank you, Paulo, for offering us this opportunity to reflect and imagine.
Sincerely,
Savita
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I loved Isa’s post from April 1. I could picture the houses Isa described in detail and want to visit them in person. Isa was also the name of the Achitect who designed the Taj Mahal. It is no surprise that you would paint such vivid pictures. Cheers, karen
As for me I love my home on the shores of Lake Erie here in Canada. If I was a house I’d have to be a house over looking a body of water. As architects say, “location, location, location.”
I would be light and airy, gentle summer breezes would blow through my rooms. No air conditioning for me, who needs being cut off from nature. There would be private and public space, not all open concept, that’s too trendy, not original enough. I would smell of the fragrances of flowers and food. Pets and owners would dance on my floors to romantic torch songs, while candles glowed and faces beamed with joy and love. Music would pour forth from my windows welcoming all to whistle a happy tune as they strolled by my lush and well-kept gardens. In the silence of the evenings I would sit back, sigh and happily enjoy the lapping of the water outside my doors.
Here’s a poem I wrote in ‘95 as a gift to friends while visiting their home in northern California.
“The House Blessing”
Things made by people,
From lands near and far.
Symbols of process,
The expereience of life,
Myth and magic.
Faces ecstatic,
others pained.
Tapestries of texture,
Woven spirit,
Of heart and hands.
Containers of life,
Lay in wait.
Instruments of light and dark,
Sound and silence,
Mind and matter,
Warmth and love,
Bless this house and home.
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Part II:
It is a simple house, not tiny, yet not at all pretentious. It has a rather rustic feel, of raw wood and natural materials. The front porch is both deep and expansive, and appears to wrap all the way around, on four sides. The house is raised up off the ground, about hip-high, but there are no railings around the porch, nothing to fence the house off from what lies beyond it. The porch is completely open, as is the house itself - exposed to and inviting of the nature which surrounds it. The porch and its supports are of a dark, rustic wood, the same wood that trims the flat white panels of the house itself. The roof is tin, well-made, with a steep slope leading upward and inward from all sides, then dropping off toward the interior of the house. There are no front doors in the expected sense of the word - the walls of the house itself are composed of large, sliding panels that open up in every direction to sunlight and air.
Because of this peculiar feature, even from where you stand, on the stone walk, a few feet in front of the porch-steps, you can see all the way into the house and through it, to the lake which lies beyond. This, you take as an obvious invitation to enter, so you move forward and ascend the set of short wooden steps leading up to the porch. Just as you arrive at the top step, however, you notice a strange sensation: you can feel the grains of the wood beneath your feet. You look down and realize, in amazement, that you are barefooted. “How could this be?” you wonder. Just a moment ago, you were wearing your shoes. You did not stop to take them off. “Where did they go?!” You look around, but your shoes are nowhere in sight. This, you conclude, must be sacred ground. This house does not look like a shrine - it is so simple, so unassuming, so cleanly designed and humbly proportioned - and yet, just as the Torii you passed through earlier suggested, this is, apparently, a place of holiness and sanctity. Suddenly, you feel the urge to kneel and bow, as you have seen the Samurai Knights do in old movies. You suddenly feel like you’re in an Aikido class, standing before the Sensei. You lean in over the threshold and call out, “Is anyone here?” No one answers, only the breeze and the birds, twittering joyfully in the trees outside.
You step in through the door that is not a door - through the open wall at the front of the house - and into the first room. The coolness of a tatami mat greets your bare feet. The earthy feel of the soft reeds of which it is woven make you happy that you cannot find your shoes. The room is huge, stretching the full length of the front of the house. It is also empty, except for one small alcove in the wall, where sits a lovely blue vase filled with lotus blossoms. You look up at the ceiling, the large, exposed rafters of raw wood. You notice also the trim, the door-frames, everything - how each piece of wood is intricately carved at the ends, designed to fit precisely and tightly into the next adjoining beam or pole. You look more closely even, and realize that there are no nails anywhere. Not one head sticking out to mar the precious, smooth surface of the wood. “This house is like a three-dimensional puzzle,” you think: each piece carved to fit and join with the next.
With that thought, you step through toward the center of the house, into the next room, which isn’t a room at all. It is another porch, a perfectly symmetrical, square flank, surrounding an open courtyard at the center of the house. Just as the slant of the roof suggested, this central section, this small square courtyard, is open to the sky above. The courtyard is paved with small gray pebbles, and at its center is a well. At this point, you are very thirsty from your journey, and so, you descend the one small set of wooden steps leading down to ground level. The well itself, also square in shape, is made of stone, much like those of Medieval times, with a roof over it, to protect in from contamination from the elements. Hanging from a rope attached to a crank, is a wooden bucket. You release the crank, and the bucket drops. But you do not here a splash. “That is odd,” you think. The rope was not very long. “Maybe the well is dry.” So, you crank the handle until the bucket reappears…sloshing with water! You pull the bucket over toward you and set it on the rim, hugging it to your chest. You peer down into the bucket: “It looks like ordinary water.” There is no sludge or debris, the water is crystal clear. This is when you notice something else that takes you by surprise: just beside your right hand, sitting on the rim of the well, is a wooden ladle; just to your left, a crisp white hand-towel, neatly folded and draped over the rim. You are sure that these were not there a moment ago. Choosing to ignore this fact, however, you dip the ladle into the bucket and take a sip, then a long draught, of the cool sweet water. With the towel you wash your face and arms, removing the sweat and dust of your journey.
Then, turning from the well, and feeling much refreshed, you decide to explore a bit beyond the house. Even from where you stand in the courtyard, due the expansive opening afforded by the sliding panels, you can see the lake at the back. At this point, you are really wondering where you are, and you think that maybe the view afforded by the open waters might give you some clue. So, you ascend the tiny staircase back up out of the courtyard, skirt around the interior porch, and step into the room at the back of the house. It looks very much like the room at the front, identical, in fact, except for the absence of the tiny alcove adorned with flowers. At one end of this room there appears to be a closet, but that is all. You won’t concern yourself with this for now, though. You are eager for the lake.
When you step out onto the back porch, the mirror image of the porch on the front of the house, the first thing you notice is the profusion of flowers. The air is thick with the heady scent of blooms. The shoreline of the lake is not straight, but permits of many tiny inlets and small lagoons, as well as numerous canals connecting these, one to the other. The whole surface of the water near the edge, and even reaching out quite far, is clustered with stars - everywhere you look, there are blue lotus’s in various phases of bursting open to reveal their brilliant yellow hearts. And even more than that, all along the edge of these little canals and interconnected waterways leading out into the larger lake, there stand, in great profusion, cherry trees, erupting into bloom. Just as you step down off of the porch, a gentle breeze ripples in from off of the lake, shaking the branches and causing a flurry of pink blossoms that falls like snowflakes, to float in clusters upon the surface of the waters. And all along these little canals and in between the cherry trees, there is a pathway that winds and meanders, diverging here, converging there, wandering off in all sorts of enticing directions. This is no ordinary backyard - this is a sort of pleasure garden, designed for strolling.
Directly in front of you lies a narrow wooden pier, leading to a sort of gazebo that appears to float upon the surface of the pool it occupies. The pier and the gazebo both, like the porch on the house, possess no railing of any sort. Everything here is open and free, inviting the visitor to enter and, likewise, to leave, at will. It would be so easy, if one were not attentive, to walk off the edge of that porch and fall, perhaps spraining an ankle or even breaking an arm. The narrow pier, unprotected as it is, similarly appears to invite accident or injury. The gazebo, as well. If one were not careful, they could so easily step right off of the edge and fall into the water. And yet you decide that you rather like this element of danger inherent to your new surroundings. “Yes, I could fall off…” you think, “but I’m also free to jump off if I please.” Nothing here, not even so much as a hand-rail on the staircase, tells you that you must use the steps as a means of entry and exit to the porch. Nothing indicates that you mustn’t dive off of the gazebo. If you should so wish, nothing is stopping you from plopping down on the pier and dangling your bare feet in the water. Even the house presents no obstacle to complete freedom of entry and exit. The walls aren’t even true walls. They slide right open and disappear into themselves. And, although these panels could be closed, there are no locks upon them.
This is almost too much for your mind to comprehend - the beauty of it, the simplicity, the serenity. The blending of the inside and the out, the complete lack of distinction between the interior of the house and the nature which surrounds it. And the whole of it - completely unadorned and yet so sensual. Even the garden is not evidently landscaped - only the lotus’s, the cherry trees, and a few willows, a simple stone path - nothing to indicate the imposition of human aesthetics upon the raw glory of the wilderness.
You long to go for a stroll, to explore some more, but you are a bit tired now, not to mention hungry, so you decide to go back into the house to try and find a place to take a nap. This decision makes you feel a bit like Goldilocks in the story of the Three Bears, but nothing you have encountered here, so far, has indicated the presence of anyone but yourself. You may not know where “here” is, but you are certain that you are here alone.
As you step back into the house, you almost stumble and fall, as you bang your shins against what appears to be a small coffee table set right in the middle of the first room you enter. “Where did this come from?!” you wonder in amazement, as you reach down to rub the knot that is rising up on your right shin. The table, which you realize is not a coffee table at all, but a sort of low dining table, is verily overflowing with food, and set with a single place setting. A large white plate, a set of chopsticks, a neatly folded white napkin, and a glass of wine. As you step back, again you stumble and almost fall, this time, over a plump cushion on the floor behind you - a seat of some kind. So, you sit, and you take a sip of your wine - it must be yours, for whom else could it be intended? It tastes like the cherry blossoms smell. Then you notice that the food on the table is not just any food - the whole table is adorned with plates and bowls and various types of serving dishes, and each and every one of these contains one of your favorite foods. It is like a feast composed of all the things in the world you deem as most sumptuous and delicious. So, you eat, because you are famished. “This has been the longest day of my life,” you think, “…and I don’t even know where I am anymore.” And yet the one thing that you do know is that you are not eager to leave - there is so much yet left to explore. So many questions, as yet unanswered.
When you are finished with your meal, you decide to lie down for a little nap, thinking, “What can it hurt?” The tatami that covers the floor is soft and quite cozy, so you are considering picking a spot nearby, between the table and that as yet mysterious closet at the end of the room. But then something else catches your eye - “Could it be a bed?!” Yes, it is a bed, at least a bed of sorts. it is low to the floor, like the table, made of a simple wooden frame, laid on top with a single tatami mat, just your size. At the head of the bed, there is a small, blue velvet pillow, round and soft, shaped like a sausage. Now you really do feel like Goldilocks! There are no linens, but you are too tired to look in the closet at the opposite end of the room. The sun, which is low now in the sky, is shining in upon the bed, and as you lie down and make yourself comfortable, the warmth is like a blanket that covers and soothes you. In moments, you are sound asleep.
To be continued tomorrow…
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A house is a place:
To rest
To renew
To sing
To love
To cry
To heal
To nourish
To celebrate
To wash
To pray
To feel
To live
To die
If I were a house – how would it be? Moveable, not afraid to remodel, not afraid of fire, firm, open to: breath, see, feel, taste, all.
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wnGPmlXDJNI&feature=related
Green, green grass of home..
A song of my youth!! ;]
LOVE,
Thelma
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The House. Heaven. The house of our Father.
‘I am going to my Father’s house’ Jesus has said.
We are all, here on Earth, as Albert Kamus has felt and prescribed .. Strangers. Our true home is .. Paradise.
For me House means to be protected, τo be at ease and feel peaceful.
I love staying at Home. We call them in Greek, Home-Cat= Σπιτόγατος. Μy house is my … Kingdom. I am a .. servant and a queen! [Δούλα και Κυρά].
Paradise on earth is to feel like … at Home. To love and be loved. To have EROS, FILIA, AGAPE.
LOVE,
Thelma
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What type of House would I be?
I imagine old wood floors, dark and with cricks and bends, in good condition, but ancient. There would be some cool(temperature) stone tile in the kitchen and eating area. I am have a large circular room with a cone shaped ceiling and opening in the top to let out the smoke coming from the open hearth/fire pit below, these floors are slate, dark and with hints of blue and grey. The hallways wind with the walls being covered with pictures of family and friends, each bend in the path opens up to a little nook with maybe a comfortable leather chair and small table, and maybe a window over looking a beautiful vista. There is a stack of books at each nook. All of the doors are different, they are old wood, some painted in whites or blacks, some are stained. Each has an interesting glass door knob. The rooms are shaped round or in some geometric shape that resembles a circle. There is a simple bed, dresser and basin in the room. Maybe another comfortable leather chair for reading, or just looking out the window and meditating. One of the rooms opens to another hallway, this one descends again along a curved pathway. There are no steps, just slight variations in the stone work, you may not even know you are moving downward. At the end of the hallway is a door with a round top and a handle in the center of it. There is also a sun sign with a cryptically smiling face looking upon you. Around the frame are prayers and sayings of wisdom. On the doorknob are the words “Thank You”. The room beyond the door is circular. At the very center is a chair, sometimes a mat, sometimes a round flat top leather bench/seat, sometimes there is a bench for kneeling, sometimes there is nothing. The floor is smooth, cool to touch and seamless. Water cascades down the walls almost imperceptibly, making just the slightest sound. There room is so quiet that you can hear your heart beat and the blood circulate through your veins. Soft light emanates from the ceiling, casting a soft glow through out the room. Sometimes there is a gong or a chime, ancient and complex in the center of the room that you can ring and contemplate the vibrations. As you leave the room, the door is now square and the knob is on the side. On the knob is the word “enter”. When you leave you are now descending again back to the main hallway. There you finds friends and neighbors, family and loved ones, all sitting at a great table in the great room getting ready to feast together. They are not all staring at you, they are busy enjoying the moment, laughing, talking, discussing, and you join into the fray as if you never have been gone. The evening continues on seemingly forever, and once all have retired, you awaken to a peaceful morning, quiet and in solitude, sitting on a deck extended over a great cliff looking out into a valley with a river running through it. The coffee is hot and invigorating, there is a plate of assorted fruit and cheese awaiting your perusal. In the background, classical guitar mingles with the sound of nature creating a blend of harmonies that only that moment could produce. Inside, your friends and family are safe, comfortable and content. Each stirring from their slumber and beginning to prepare for another wonderful day.
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If I were to describe myself as a house – would it would be so: :-)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T4xCJeatlgY&feature=related
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My body is the house of my heart & soul.
I do my best to cherish it.
Hopefully it will become even lighter, brighter-
with really big windows - looking into the
pure, wonderful nature outside. Water,
and the very soft wind blowing
God`s breath in me*
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Part I
Perhaps you will be in a large city park somewhere, out for a stroll, or in a meadow near your home, and you will look toward the edge of the forest and there notice a sort of opening in the foliage down low. Then, stepping a little closer, you will see how the opening appears to be the entry to some sort of passageway. You have no idea where this path could lead you, but, because you are an adventurer at heart, you cannot resist. You step through the opening and, indeed, suddenly find yourself upon a distinct and easily discernible path leading deep into the heart of the forrest. You are surprised at this, because there was no sign at the entryway either to announce the existence of such a path, or to indicate the destination to which it might lead. You do not know if the trail ahead is long or short, and for a moment you are overcome by the strange sensation of having just left behind all that you have ever known as solid and real.
It is an unusual path, you quickly decide. It is not the sort of trail that was hacked out with a machete and an axe. Nor is it a path made by walking, the sort that evolves naturally as the feet of many passers-through etch a trench in the forest floor. This path is paved, composed of a series of large flat stones. It is an intentional path, purposeful, made by human hands, and yet it is hard to discern where the edges of the path end and the surrounding nature begins. The edges of the stones do not jut up, but smoothly disappear into the grass and leaves. A green frothy moss defines the outline of each. These stones, you realize, could have been here for centuries, and yet you sense quite keenly that you are the first traveler to pass here along this path. How could that be, you wonder, as you walk further along, deeper into the cool blue shadows of this forest. Someone must have fashioned this path - how could I be the first and only one to pass along it?
Then, just as you are pondering this question, you catch a glimpse up ahead of something bright red. Is someone coming toward you? But then, a few steps further on, the mystery is solved: the path opens up and arrives at a sort of gateway. You stop where you stand and stare up at the structure that looms before you. You immediately recognize it for what it is, as you have seen such structures before in your many travels: it is a Japanese Torii, a gateway to the sacred. This, of course, sparks your interest even more, and although you sense that it is already growing late in the day, you step through and continue on your way. A growing sense of anticipation leads you on, and you find this sensation quite delicious. You almost cannot believe that only a short while ago, you were engaged in a rather ordinary and uneventful day.
And just about the time that this thought occurs to you, you round another bend in the path and suddenly come upon a most spectacular view: a steeply arched bridge, again in traditional Japanese style. And this too is also painted red. Beneath it a shallow waterway winds out in both directions, disappearing into the forest. And at this point, you notice something else quite peculiar: the foliage itself is not the same foliage that outlined the path initially. This is not the native foliage of the place where you started out. Here, gnarled pines twist into windswept shapes. Ferns and other delicate plants jut up in clusters and outline both path and waterway. This is not the forest that you thought you knew. This is someplace wholly Other than the place where your little adventure began. And you are beginning to wonder, also, why is it not growing dark. It should be near dusk by now. Instead, the sky overhead seems to be growing lighter, as though it were the moment just before dawn.
You do not let this deter you, however; you have never been one to be frightened away by ethereal abnormalities. If anything, the growing light entices you even more to cross this bridge, steep as it is - to know what lies beyond. And as you reach the peak of the bridge, you pause at the railing and peer down into the clearest water you have ever seen, water that suddenly and surprisingly bursts to life with the golden, glowing carp that inhabit it and which have obviously taken notice of your presence. You stand there with your elbows resting on the rails and you wonder who feeds these fish that are obviously accustomed to being fed from this bridge. Who, besides you, has passed over these wooden planks? Who stands in this very spot…? And just as this thought crossed your mind, you unfold the palms of your hands to discover that they are filled with tiny brown pellets, some form of grain, some of which slip between your open fingers and falls into the water far below. The fish immediately respond to this in a flurry of excitement. They swirl about in a tight cluster and jump over one another to get at the grain. You turn your hands and allow the pellets to fall, all into the water.
Now you are convinced that this is no earthly path, no ordinary afternoon adventure. You descend from the bridge so as to move on along the path. But the moment that your foot touches the ground on the other side, the forest itself disappears into thin air, and you are standing, in a state of complete awe, before a house. You glance back over your shoulder and see that, on the other side of the bridge, the trees are still there. Nothing has changed. But the waterway, you realize now, is not just a river. You have not merely crossed over from one side to another. This is, in fact, an island that you have entered upon. Beyond the house, on both sides and in every direction, is a clear blue lake. The little waterway you just crossed over served only to separate this island from the mainland you left behind. It connects with and pours out, on both ends, into this larger body of water. The house which stands now directly in front of you, a traditional Japanese Sukiya, seems to be inviting you to enter.
To be continued tomorrow….
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I AM white shelled EGG.
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If I would be house I would be made of thick bricks, adding a layer with every human encounter. Once in a while the roof comes off, but that’s ok, it’s even necessary, like this all the dust gets out and the roof repairs itself anyway.
There is no visible door, but when it opens, you can’t miss it. And you want to enter, there is no way to resist. It’s even difficult to get out.
Inside it is rather dark, a bit dusty even maybe. But it is warm and cosey and safe and full of undetected colours. Once in a while there is a sunray peeking through an opening, not obvious where it comes from, but they are a little bit everywhere.
Lots of ghosts fly around in this house, some of them are evil, but usually there is one strong mind that chases them all back to their hidden corners. Just now and then this mind gets tired and just let them have their game. After a while they get bored and go back to their hide out. They do no real harm. But do not worry, there is also laughter and love.
The house is full of stairs, they all lead elsewhere, every time you take them. They never access the same room or floor.
There are no doors, or at least they are always open.
Is there a garden? Oh sure there is. It is my real house, surrounding me in the real world, filled with cats and plants and light and beautifull things. That one has a lot of windows and a visible door, but you still can’t get in without my permission.
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oona , oona ,
a step before the other with the love in your heart. You are unique and each person is loved for what it IS
love
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Don’t you see dear Alexandra…? Your heart is just as open as mine… otherwise we wouldn’t be able to communicate and understand each other as we do… I wish you a wonderful April Fools day ;) Real Love, Paul
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Oona,
when i left my childhood home, it was only when i came back for a brief stay [to help sell the house after renting it out for ten year] that i realised how much the house was a part of who i was: the spiral stairs, the different levels, the attic.
I sometimes felt and feel completely estranged from life now because i am ‘homeless’…
but take good heart that the soul is stronger than bricks and mortar!!! perhaps see your current struggle as ‘renovation’ or ‘extension’… for nothing of yourself is truelly ever lost if we don’t wish it to be so….
we only accumulate and acquire more and more, then can decide to do a jumble sale or else live in a crowded house of belongings.
so, take a simple space and consider how you should like to create that space… for example, i’d straight away think of a candle and a cushion/seat; then a leafy plant. take it day by day or in your own time/own pace.
and as for parents, am i wrong to say that they always hope for good children to be well behaved, etc.. because it’s less worry - but also more boring. Your creativity is obviously what inspires your imagination, and thats something to kindle - as you do…so don’t beat yourself up on too many inner and external struggles… we are all (just) human at the end of the day ;o)
so hope what ive learnt may help in any way. Blessings.
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