“This house has a way of making you face down your demons,” she said. There was no sarcasm, no jest. The warning spoke of experience. It was almost soft in acknowledgement of the difficulty it brings.
The house to face down demons. The house, a masked warrior perched among oceans and fields and mountains that makes it more enticing than bearable.
Facing down my demons… What will this mean?
I stay in the house that beckons. I walk the driveway that extends for ages and offers shelter from the winds that howl. I stand listening to the ocean’s roar against black rocks of former centuries. I climb to where oxygen thins and breath becomes short. My motion interlaced with a mind that begins to churn. Thoughts become as vast as the horizon – an unending scope that cannot pierce the magnitude.
The wind that howls and the ocean that crashes and the mountains that unsteady breathing slowly stir up chaos like a dust bowl dancing atop the battle scars- some still seeping- I’ve attempted to make neat and orderly. And always the house beckons, calling me back to sit and wade through what the winds and ocean and mountains brought. The white harbor trades the chill of the elements for the chill of digging through what lies below the light.
Chairs big enough to reject formality offer views of eternity and possess time warping abilities. All in the name of pondering. Books seem a distraction from the main event that remains constant- spectacular enough to never tire but brilliant enough to serve as a springboard. The dust bowl builds, picking up the dirt of memories along the way. It whips the old around as if they were specks of sand in the wind plastering the body with shards of glass.
All of this in the house that makes you face demons. These things from which you know there is another side but question not the ability but the willingness to give what it takes to get there. The ravaging you contemplate while looking out at views that leave you quiet. The viewing of the little ones in fields just over, leaping and bounding with fresh zeal just days in. The eagerness contrasting the coming process, making it feel that much more ominous. Their lightness of step is the hope of learning what it is to be beyond the reality that permeates the present.
Days dance by as the dust bowl twirls eager minds in past, present and future. Midday softens as evenings raise when suns set and fellowship quiets. Walls once fortress strong grow tender if for no one else but one’s own presence when this facing down has you up early because beds turn into thought vortexes and coffee never comes quickly enough for eyes to match the already blazing mind.
Light breaks. First only hitting what freely receives its exposure. The quiet, darker parts still find refuge in shadows, breathing an angst-filled exhale that their time has not yet come. The dark sides of that jagged hill still feel safe from exposure. But light extends, because once it’s gained ground it does not return to dormancy. Slowly, it illuminates more and more. Hazy eyes start to see what the blazing mind has been warning: light inherently desires to expose more and more of faulty foundations.
If only I’d let it.
Sadness for the areas I know I’ve given way comes. Those areas… they’re so close to the base of the building blocks that I start questioning what – if anything- would be salvaged if I move them. Would precision be enough? What if there is more decay that needs to be removed once I go there?
All of this in the house that makes you face demons.