Dwelling Within

The truth about the house is that it is much larger than it appears from the outside. This used to surprise me but I’ve learned it’s one of many things that makes this building interesting. When I’m walking around inside I am always finding something I’ve never seen before. Sometimes, entire wings.

I am not sure of what age I was when I first found the old white house. I’ve always been drawn to the abandoned and run down. Both in buildings, and people, I think. I imagine that’s why this place, in particular, kept me coming back over the years. I don’t remember exactly when I saw it for the first time. All of my visits there seem to run together and I can’t tell what I saw when.

The house is large. Sprawling, really. A wooden structure with a deeply pitched roof. On the backside, depending on whether you approach it from the field in the back or the sidewalk in the front, there is a nearly as big ornate glass greenhouse attached to the main structure. Windows are scattered across each outside wall. Oddly, it seems some are in a place that can not possibly line up with where the floor must be. This has left me a bit unsettled at times but I’m used to it now. 

The weathered wooden siding needs scraping and painting to bring it back to its original crisp white color. There are spots on the roof where shingles are missing. A good size hole at the peak allows the sunshine in and I can see it through a broken window pane. On days when the sun is out during my visit that is. Generally, though, the weather is overcast and threatening to storm when I am there.

Whether I approach the house from the woods or the street I walk the overgrown mossy stone path to the greenhouse first.

Every time I am there I make a point to visit the green house. The exterior of the structure is highly decorative. Almost Victorian. Black metal makes up the bones that hold the glass panes. Scrolled designs curve out from each piece. Neither style of the two attached structures go together but yet they compliment each other. I can not imagine either being gone. They belong together. 

The flora surrounding the house and growing up it’s sides (sometimes entering windows and inching across the decayed floors) is varied and and some seem out of place for the region. As if they should not be able to grow in a climate which has little sunshine and copious amounts of rain and snow. Maybe, long ago, they escaped from a broken window in the tropical warm greenhouse and somehow found a way to survive. 

As I am describing this house I feel as if I am telling you about an old friend. I know my words are inadequate in conveying the eerie albeit comforting presence of this place. My words are not doing this place justice. 

Upon entering the house . . . the interior is never the same. In fact, as I sit here and think about it, I can’t remember ever actually going through a door. All of a sudden I am just inside. Hmm.

I am the only one who can visit this old house. I go to it when I am asleep. Only I have traversed its halls and peeked into the innumerable rooms the walls hold.. The greenhouse is mine, I’ve created it, and I alone will continue to spend time there. The house, you see, is the physical manifestation of my soul. My thoughts. All of my fears. Memories. This is where the records of my life/lives are kept. The greenhouse, I think, is a direct reflection of the health of my soul. 

There are times when I have been inside and it is full of decay. The warm wet air is heavy with the smell of rot. The towering trees are gray and their leaves hang sadly with little color. The pond in the center of the space is swampy and when I peer inside I can see milky white fish laying at the bottom barely moving. They look like ghosts. This sight always brings me to tears and I vow to do better.

I haven’t dreamt about this house in quite a while. Finally, a few nights ago, I found myself inside its walls again. Oh, how things have changed.

Endless hallways lead to dozens of rooms. On a previous visit, years ago, I found myself able to go through a door that I’d not been able to enter during prior visits. Contained inside were the mementos from the life of a preteen red headed little boy. He died young. I sat on the spongy floor and leafed through the stacks of papers. Anyway, that visit is a story for another time. I mention it because my access to certain areas is at times denied and at other times allowed.

A hallway that once led to the stairs to the upper floor no longer exists. Or, it has become so small I can no longer walk it. Rooms are missing and new ones have taken their place. There is one doorway that has an intricately carved wooden casing surrounding it. I always run my hands lovingly across the wood grain. A few nights ago, though, the wood was faded and didn’t have any luster. It was dry and cracked.. Cobwebs covered it’s opening and it looked as if it had aged a hundred years since my last visit. I stopped in front of it and wondered why it appeared as it did. I didn’t stay there long because I noticed a wind blowing down the hallway. A wind, from outside, because it smelled of fresh grass and warm earth. When I turned my head in the direction of the wind I could see a warm glow around a curved corner. I walked in the direction of the light.

Coming around the corner I saw an arched stone doorway. It was both tall and wide and the sunshine splashed across the cobblestone that lay beneath it. The light was dense and warm and golden. The sounds were familiar. The people were speaking in another language. I could hear dogs barking and people laughing. I rushed through the doorway and into an Italian town. 

When I got outside I was astounded. A street lay out before me that was lined with different shops. People, appearing to be from many different eras, walked up and down the sidewalks. Slowly, I made my way down the brick street. I could tell no one knew I was there. I thought I used to be her. Or that is me from another time.  But then I got nervous. Afraid I wouldn’t be able to get back into my house again so I turned around to head back.

And, there was my house. On the right side was the greenhouse. This time the glass windows were clean and shining brightly in the sun. I could see the tops of bright green trees swaying in the uppermost panes of glass. Plants with vivid colored flowers were pressed up against the lower windows. There were birds flying around inside! I knew the fish in the pond would be shiny and bright darting around underneath giant lily pads. The life inside was flourishing.

To the left of my house was a long ancient stone wall. Along the wall, at varying levels, were tombs carved into its depths. The ground was dusty clay and palm trees grew here and there. Italy. Sicily is now attached to my house. The island is now a part of my history, of my future. 

I stood for a moment and let the hot heavy Mediterranean sunshine bathe me in its light. My face turned up to accept the warmth. Opening my eyes I smiled at the knowledge that I can now visit this place whenever I come to my house. 

The fact that the greenhouse is lush and full of life says so much more about what my soul experienced in Sicily than my words can. 

I am grateful to know myself so well.

I am thankful.