Space

I drove past the house I grew up in, on the way back from picking L up from a birthday party. There was a man sledding down the front hill with his son, and in an uncharacteristically social mood I rolled down the window and told him I'd grown up in his house. Big grin--he beckons us into the driveway, and we chatted for about an hour about the house (more than half of which my father built), and its quirks. And the ghost I always thought lived there. (He started that one: asked if we'd ever sensed something in the house.) The nicest people: open, honest faces and easy smiles. It made me so happy, seeing these good people filling up that space that meant so much to me.

I came across a book packed with construction plans and interior designs for houses built in trees. Some of them were elaborate, and some were little more than hanging tents. All of them a little big of magic. Lifting UP, off the ground--OUT of the chaos. Lately, it resonates. I remember a tale about a man who was traveling through Africa and had three natives accompanying him, carrying his luggage. They raced and raced--tore through the countryside for three days--and then the three natives put the luggage down and sat on the ground, and no matter how he begged them, the traveler couldn't get them to move. Finally one of them explained: "We've been moving too fast. Now we have to stop and wait for our spirits to catch up with us."

Peace and good things.