The house as body

It seems I cannot decide which house to claim as my own. This is clear in my dreams. Too much clutter leaves the residue of frustration and anxiety. Unstable walls and floors, the fear of collapse. Some nights I build palaces that rival Versailles. I walk gilded halls and call them my own. The rooms are endless, each floor more brilliant than the one before. I am a vessel of unlimited creation, before I crumble back into a buried fear.

Last night, my house made me uncomfortable. The bedrooms extended into living rooms without doors. The kitchen needed updating. There was a graveyard outside my son’s window. My own bedroom opened into a balcony of trees, and my heart filled with joy as I imagined waking to the ever-changing scene of wildlife, until I saw the gaps under the floor, and the futile attempts to secure a house against the elements that would inevitably pervade the constructed space. Who was I fooling? I could not live here.

Yet, I could not leave. This was the house I had chosen. It was mine. So, I began to clear the rooms, freeing them of the energy called fear. I did it alone, using my hand to feel the unwanted vibrations, my breath to clear the energy into light. There was no sense of discontent. I was not discouraged that each room seemed to hold pockets of energy that needed to be cleared. I simply did what I needed to do to make my house my home.

Perhaps tonight I will build a palace again. I’ll use my hand to paint the forest on the walls, upon the ceilings I’ll map infinity in stars. When I am done, when my hand is tired and my palace is complete, I’ll let it crumble. I’ll watch the walls recede into the body of the Earth, the ceiling dissolve into the heavens, and then I’ll know I’ve come home.