When my husband showed me
the first photo on the internet,
I exclaimed, unequivocally,
“That is my house!”
And less than a week later, it was…
though it took the lender
agonizing weeks to make it official
and set our move into motion.
On the second day after move-in,
while the Bach Magnificat played
all-gloriously on built-in speakers,
I was buried in boxes, wading knee-
deep in packing paper, surrounded
by crowds of things that didn’t
yet know where they belonged,
and still unpacking furiously, my
nesting instinct crazily out of control.
When I stood up to rip into the next
box, it hit me like a moving van: I was
drop-dead-where-you-stand tired,
possibly but a cup of hot tea and a
moment of rest between me and collapse.
Hot tea in a hot mug in hand,
I sank into a chair, then closed
my eyes, letting Bach twine
garlands of ascending and
descending phrases around me.
Moments later,
when I opened my eyes,
they swept out the window,
taking my heart with them
winging into the expansive beauty
of creation that lay before me,
mountains and valley,
trees and sky.
I felt my cells rearranging,
my soul filling to everlasting.
And it came to me then,
out-of-time, all quietly:
I have come to live in a house
made for music and beauty.
Photo credit: John Keiffer
