The sacredness of space can so easily be overlooked and forgotten, I find; which always surprises me because I do know that. A home is the most sacred of all. Matter has consciousness, a fact not generally recognized any more. When various forms are brought together to form a home, matter and space becomes a temple wherein our most private rituals, thoughts, prayers, loves and work takes place. What could be more holy?

My little home had been glowingly alive, probably sensing she was fulfilling her deepest purpose, during a retreat in early December – hearth lit and tended by many, dreams and deep heart stories shared, ancestors invited and talking, smells of delicious food, peals of laughter, birds coming to check it out – when thump; news hit that a storm was coming, a big one arriving quickly and if people didn’t get off the mountain after dinner on Saturday night then Sunday, our normal ending time, would be too late. Miraculously we pulled together a conscious and sweet closing after dinner and off everyone went safely. But the ending was abrupt, too soon, something aborted. Then two days later, I had to rush out in the same way – moving quickly like a madwoman, batten down hatches, but leave everything in disarray as I ran off before the storm arrived that could lock me in.

During the month away I thought constantly about my little house sitting up here alone, having been left without proper attention, pounded by feet and feet of snow and storm, no fire lit inside, no smell of coffee in the morning, no real sense of purpose. Some would call this psychological projection, to some extent fairly – my but heart kept feeling this home as an alive being who was feeling confused and abandoned, holding on very bravely but being sad.

Coming back much later than originally intended, within hours of the roads and my driveway finally being plowed I came to her. But a variety of confusions immediately took over the homecoming. Plants I have owned since my children were little were dying due to a mistake by a neighbor, things felt rotten and dead and plundered; like the aftermath of a hurricane. The evening was taken with some long conversations. And my home just sat here like – so? what? say something? aren’t you proud of me? When I looked at her all I could see was the mess of a month’s worth of mail, a car full of stuff dragged inside, the effects of too many people leaving in a hurry, unmade beds, death of loved plants, rotten vases of dead flowers, dust, dirt.

How does one sleep in the middle of this? I didn’t. Bad night. Then as I picked away at things yesterday I was haunted by ghosts of every kind. Haunted. Ow. Finally in the middle of the night the house finally broke through to my consciousness and demanded she get some dignity back, show some gratitude! I straightened, cleared, dusted, mopped, vacuumed.

I did then sleep, and had dreams of trees dancing; I began to notice the familiar trees start to spin in place and playfully sway and dance. Their spirits came down the mountain like people and I brought out warm milk with cornbread soaking in it, with cayenne that for some dream reason I had rubbed and rubbed in my fingers to make it full of essence. I served it in bowls to warm everybody up.

This morning I got up and opened the house all up – freezing air and weather blowing through taking all of the stale air out. Built a blazing fire. Burned sage and spread it’s clearing smoke into every corner. Threw cornmeal out to the mountain and to all 7 directions. Thanked the spirits, the trees, the house, the snow, the wood, the sky, the sun, the air, the matter and the essence of it all.

Reclamation. Sorry it took so long.


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