I’m so insanely busy right now.  I’ve got a full time job for the first time in a few years.  I’ll be updating this blog with new stuff once a week, but until then, here is a vintage post. 

It was 13 degrees up on my mountain this morning.  I LOVE it.  There is too much beauty in the weighted boughs of the trees, the whited out landscape.  It  soothes me.

When I was 10ish years old, my father built my sister and me our own rooms.  The house I grew up in was originally a vacation/hunting cabin.  It had been added on to but the two-room core of the house had 20 foot cathedral ceilings.  My sister and I shared one room, my parents had the other.

My dad split the room in two and built an upstairs loft for me.  The only request I had was an enormous window.  So, I had a room in the eaves with a wooden floor, one wall was just window (only wrought iron, no glass, no screen) with a window seat.  When I moved in, he hadn’t even put up the half wall of bookshelves that was to be the borders of the loft.  It was just a wooden floor that hung over a hallway that I looked down upon with a beating heart.  On one of the walls he had put up a muted paneling that showed a forest scene in the four different seasons.  It was the palest greens and creamiest whites.  All I had in that room was a twin mattress on the floor.  I would drag the mattress over to the window when it rained.  The breeze was always just enough to mist me with the rain and I would fall into the deepest sleeps on those nights.  (I was plagued by nightmares nearly every night but those, when I would fall asleep with rain on my face.)

The eaves of the ceiling were nearly a hundred years old and I studied their chipped paint, their scars with a growing devotion that could only be called love in retrospect.  The wooden floor, grooved together (male and female joints, my father explained with pride) was reclaimed wood and stretched away from my bed, dropping off as a horizon.  It took years of living up there before enough dust accumulated between those joints to not shower my sister’s room downstairs with a fine film every time I swept.

There it was, a white room, bare floor, large window, and a mattress.  It was my sanctuary.

Unlike most of the population, I find safety in no things.  I find expansion possible.  I find that there is room for my thoughts that can cramp me in when they have to bounce off “stuff”.  Like most of the population, I got lost for a while, believing the lie that the more stuff, the more you can forge an identity.  We live in a world of buying identity, buying self.  Where we know who we are, who someone else is by reading the labels they wear, drive, and eat.

Sleeping, free of nightmares, in an empty room, face tickled by the mist requires a quality that we lose in aging if we are not mindful: the fearless inhabitation of our true self.

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