The den in my previous house.
I am not inclined to develop attachments to places, with one exception. Nothing can compare to my den in my previous home. In fact, it was one of the features that drew us to the house, to begin with. When the realtor took us for a tour on our first visit, I saw character and potential. My husband saw dollar signs and sweat labor. But, I talked him into taking another look and he wanted to make me happy. Our previous house was under contract and he was set to begin a new job within weeks requiring us to move back to our little hometown, a move I really didn’t want to make. We desperately needed a new place to live. And, this house was stuck in my brain.... I saw a lovely kitchen bay window overlooking a brick patio and huge backyard. He saw a yard and patio overrun with weeds and a dilapidated pergola. I saw a bedroom suite with a master bath and space for the washer and dryer, upstairs. He saw flowered wallpaper and 30-year-old carpet. I saw a huge walk-in closet which I promised could be his to stable his clothes horse addiction and many suits and ties. We agreed on the closet. The bedrooms were huge. All four of them, although we only needed two. Three bathrooms, one with a soaking tub, insured each of us would have our own. But, the room that set both our hearts ablaze, was the den; Two small steps down into a cozy space with a fireplace on one wall and floor to ceiling built-in bookcases and storage on the opposite wall. It was tiny and cozy and I could easily envision all of my beloved books and trinkets collected from all over the world adorning those shelves. The floor was natural wood, and an entire brick wall of the fireplace had a rough-hewn beam as its mantel. The room was long, yet narrow and windows were at opposite ends. I placed two huge, overstuffed chairs which could each hold two adults or a few small children if they all liked to cuddle. In between the two chairs rested a giant shared hassock, an invitation to stretch out and take a load off: body and mind.
I have lived in 24 different residences in my lifetime. But, this house became my home for 18 years, longer than I ever imagined living anywhere. We had big plans for a remodel, but the den, we knew we would never touch. It was perfect. After holiday meals, guests would fight for a spot on one of the big chairs to doze, warmed by the heat and soothed by the sound of a crackling fire. The remodel barely got started. Three years after we moved in, my husband took his last breath in that room, beams of light from the opposing windows beckoning his spirit home. That made the room almost holy to me and I am convinced that is why I lived alone in such a big white elephant for far too long. In the early days after his death, this was the one spot I often sensed his presence. Over the years, it was the place I learned to meditate, indulged in my favorite pastimes; reading, listening to music, and deep, philosophical discussions with friends. It was the place I reveled in the beauty of each grandchild as they slept in my arms. It felt magical and safe there. It was a place to remember and dream. It was my chapel and the one place I could count on always finding God and feeling that peace which passes all understanding. If a room could be a living entity, this one was named comfort.
My den became a haven for many. Friends and family will tell you, they felt loved and gave love in that room. Secrets were traded and forgiveness was found. The walls had ears and listened. And, if you were quiet and reflective, the answers came, either through intuition or the loving advice of another soul. Grief was shared, widow to widow, communicating in a language only those who have lost a chunk of themselves could ever understand. Tears poured onto the arms of the big chairs, cleansing, and healing. Imagining, dreaming and reconstruction took place there. It was a confessional, a sanctuary, a retreat, and a playground. Easter eggs hidden and found, brought children's laughter and energy to the room. So much of life stripped bare of pretense or expectation was nurtured, began to blossom, and grew. When you left, your soul felt better for the visit.
I miss my den. I am back to renting and leading a life with no attachments and some days I wish I could be there once again, absorbing the wisdom left in those two walls, a fireplace, and built-ins. But, then I stop and remember - it was just a house, just a room. All that I am really craving, connection with others, vulnerability, love, and spiritual peace is available to me in any space.
Comments
Post a Comment