Life Lesson #451 ~This House

 “When you finally go back to your old house, you’ll find it isn’t the old house you miss, but the love that filled it.” ~ Unknown 

 

This house is my home. It’s small. But I’ve never needed more than I have. She’s a good house. Filled with love and warm, cozy memories. Like many homes her age, she’s a bit weathered. She’s seen more than a few tragedies. Mopping the floors with her tears, this house has in turn filled each nook and cranny with hope. Sure, this house is slightly discolored, her paint’s chipped around the edges and if you look closely, you’ll see where she’s peeling. She’s patched up here and there, and she’s missing a tile or two somewhere I’d imagine. But while she’s a bit tattered, her foundation is still strong, and steady. She’s really quite marvelous in the morning, so quiet and still. I love how the sun shines through her windows, filling every room with warm, soft beams of light. And oh, what a sight she is when the sun goes down. Even aged and mellowed this house is really very lovely beneath the moon’s light. This house comes alive, awakens gently, and basks in spring’s bonny hues of blue and violet. In the summer, she sways ever slightly beneath the glistening sun and come fall, she throws open her doors wide, preparing a feast and setting a welcoming table.  

 

Yes, this house is old. But I suppose after nearly 50 years it should be. There’re ghosts in this house, many with wild stories to tell. Some keep you up at night while others tend to follow you around, unnoticed. I guarantee if you listen closely, you’ll hear her whisper. Oh yes, this house howls, crying at night and when she’s so inclined, laughing until her frame trembles with glee. She creaks and groans, and screeches all right. She’s a bit messy, somewhat disorganized and quite often unkept. But no one seems to mind. This house has a heart, and despite her age, it beats strong.  Sure, some homes are made of mortar. Built of wood, stone, and brick, but not this house. No, this house is made of flesh and blood. A strange, awkward house, for sure, but a kind, giving home all the same. 

 

Her walls hold old photographs in equally old frames from days gone by. One look around and you’ll see her rooms are a bit dustier than they used to be. Collections of postcards, pressed flowers and hints of adventures long past still fill this place. This house was constructed from tears and heartaches, then crafted and formed from courage and determination. This house, her home, was forged by love, family and faith. Oh yes, she’s a welcoming house with warm, well-placed, familiar blankets scattered about. Her hearth is never cold, her fire, always lit even if dimly. And for every half empty teacup laying around, there’s a story to be told. Yes, her outward structure is a bit eroded, weather-beaten, and worn. It’s true this house is a little run down but to those who still knock on her door, she offers a warm, restful retreat. 

 

You see, her love holds every room together, re enforcing and rewelding her beams when they weaken. She’s a good old house, nothing remarkable or magnificent. She’s just an ordinary, everyday common house but she’s strong, built to shelter and nurture the hopes and dreams of those residing inside her heart. Sure, she looks a bit tattered, old and rundown on the outside. All old houses do though. Families make houses, homes, and her family, well they’ve painted her walls with all kinds of beautiful dreams. Every memory, broken heart and un-birthday is woven into the fabric of this house.  She still remembers the way the tree swayed just outside her door or the gentle breeze drifting softly across her skin. Oh, how she remembers when this house was young and new, and death seemed so far away. 

 

This house is wise, as she is old.  She knows death is only to be feared if you haven’t lived at all. She knows “old places have souls.” (Sarah Anderson) Time passes and new houses become old ones. She feels her doors not opening quite as wide as before, and her windows certainly are a bit dingier than they used to be. Still, she’s a sight for sore eyes after a long journey. Loved ones know, day or night the light is on, and the hearth warm. No, she’s not the grand house she used to be. Those days are long gone now. She knows her last winter is approaching. Just as she’s noticed the cold blowing through her walls a little more often or the frost settling on her windows much earlier than ever before. This year the snow is heavier and so much colder than ever before. Winter is setting into her bones. Yes, time is taking his toll.  

 

I can’t lie nor shall I pretend; this house is growing older every day. The walls certainly need some paint and the porch, a new door. But the woman within this house still hangs life lessons all around her walls, scattering a few upon her floors. Oh yes, this house needs a bit of love and some TLC.  Still, she writes, leaving small deposits behind. It’s true she may be a ghost within this house one day soon but for now the woman within will keep hanging photographs, sipping tea, and writing stories by the hearth. Her dreams, the marrow of this house's bones will linger for a while even after her tea’s turned cold. She’s weak and her hands shake a bit more every day. Still, her heart is fierce. Yes, her core, the very heart of this house is strong, sturdy even. Her light is waning, but her spirit is whole. This house, however old or decayed will never forget the love or lives nurtured within her walls. This old house, every splinted doorway, smudged corner or cracked window are part of her story. This house is her legacy. And even when the roof turns to dust and the walls cave in, her memories will remain.  You see, even after she’s faded from this world, the woman within these walls will still be the soul of this house. 

 

As for the song you hear echoing within her walls or all the stories long forgotten by mortals young and beautiful, they will remain. All waiting to be discovered once again.  This house is certainly growing faint, and these old walls are sadly vanishing, right before her own eyes. But mark my words the woman within is still alive inside the old photographs, worn out blankets, half-filled teacups and stories left behind. Sure, every life lesson she’s written may be aged and yellowed and scattered across her floors, but her heart still resides within each page. How do I know? Because I am this house and this old house is me.  

 

“Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.” ~ Lao Tzu 

 

~Merida Grace