But you children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.
Your house shall not be an anchor but a mast.
It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.
You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.
You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.
and though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.
For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.
The Prophet, On Houses
Our little dream house is not much really. It was originally built sometime in the early 1900s possibly the late 1800s, then added to in 1920, and again in the 1950s. It has staying power, and yet it is just a house.
The land was first farmed during the Homestead Act when they gave free land to farmers. It use to wrap its arms around much more land, but it has been whittled down to 10 acres now. It has given its people a sunrise and a sunset for over 100 years...which is a long time in late population-blooming Oregon.
It has the bones of an original barn and bones & skin of two original outbuildings. I've never seen a better chicken coop...I long to take artistic photos of the turquoise and cream peely-paint door with a big heavy make-do latch. I long to take photos of the hawthorn trees and say, "I am home" as a simple caption.
I long to have my family there in the simple rooms and make a Christmas meal.
I long for it like a memory of having lived there before...what is this pull?
There is a very old thriving lilac in the front yard and I imagine it during the spring...its scent trailing its way into our upstairs room every night. I imagine sighing and closing my eyes and feeling at home.
It is a home for children of space...more outside than inside.