Tuesday, December 29, 2015

The Dream That Will Not Die

Somewhere beyond the river and across the fields is a place where dreams might come true. I have long yearned to live out in the country, to have a house of my own somewhere in a secluded and beautifully peaceful spot with water nearby where I can swim every day, weather permitting, where I can watch the sun rise and the sun set, where I can commune with the trees, watch the sky change, and walk in the woods in a natural setting that sings to my soul. The house need be nothing elaborate, something simple, preferably of wood, with heating in the winter, coolness in the summer, windows with a view, the interior permeated with the smell of beeswax, dried herbs, and wood smoke, and everything necessary for work, meditation, relaxation, and just comfortable living.

I once described my house in some creative writing.

"I dream of living in small wooden house with large windows through which streams abundant amounts of sunshine. Depending on the position of the sun, the light shifts in texture and tone. In the early morning it is delicate and new, touching the walls with light feathery fingers that arouse anticipation, hope, and promise of fresh delights in store. It is pale and translucent, at first rosy like soft petals covered in dew, then lemony and luscious. During the day it is bold and joyous, no longer leaving swaths or blocks of colored light on the walls and floor, but filling the entire space with warmth and abundance, feelings of magnitude and benevolence. And in the evening, it is dusky and reflective, deep orange, pink, and violet, the shadows indigo, rich and full, inviting the mind to enter that deep Stillness where the Truth may be known and Knowledge reclaimed.

"The walls are hung with a few artsy paintings, canvases by meaningful people in my life, created in their soul pursuits, so lavish and pleasing to the eye, rich in color and depth. The floor is warm to the bare feet and dotted with woven rugs, bright splashes of color. On the broad windowsills are earthen vases of pleasingly arranged dried flowers, meadow flowers, bright and jaunty. By the window stands a table of light-colored wood, its surface lacquered, and near by a comfy couch and rattan chairs. Some solid stairs lead up to an open loft. Curtains can be drawn to conceal the sleeping area from the room below. Here is a wide low bed with cushions and a comfortable cozy eiderdown. Against one wall are bookshelves bearing an assortment of books, notebooks, and other writing material. There are also shelves for clothes concealed by a curtain. There is a small round table with a lamp and above it small shelves bearing candles. Herbs hang drying from the rafters."

So imagine my joy when I thought that I had found it, if not the house, at least the place I wanted to build that house and enjoy the life in the bosom of nature I sought.

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