Oh, for the last few days I have simply bowed my head in some sort of shame as I walk to Honeychurch.
Don’t worry, nothing horrible has happened. I’ve just noticed the more I stroll my street that my little house is starting to look like the “neglected” one people look at with sadness. And I nervously worry that I’ll come home from running errands to find one of those dreaded, red notices on the lawn from the city screaming, “MOW, YOU LAZY BASTARD!”
I have done my best to plead with the grass to slow down while I get caught up, but those little blades refuse to listen to me.
Of course, I say all of this with a smile, for when you consider the problems we have faced over the years just to get here, having an overgrown lawn is a beautiful problem to have. And despite what others may see about this solemn shell, I see something more.
When I come home to Honeychurch I see a beautiful, mature woman who still has not lost her zeal for the simple. I see an older woman who is steady, quietly graceful, and heartfelt; her beautiful face shows only the slow easing of time into a subtle smile, rather than cracks from too many frowns. Like any beautiful woman, her flaws are only aesthetic.
Like any beautiful woman this house invites, but does not impose. Like any beautiful woman, this house has allowed herself to age with grace. No, she’s not the prettiest. But, she is still beautiful.
I love this house. I have spent nearly every waking minute thinking only of this house since we moved in. I jot down notes in long hand of what needs to be done to bring Honeychurch back to herself. I dash to a pad and pen and scribble another thing to remind me. I recall doing that when I was younger, with people I just couldn’t wait to spend more time with. I’d write down little notes of all the things throughout the day that I wanted to tell them in case I forgot.
I guess I still do that, except now it’s called a blog 🙂
I want to take care of this house, seeing already how much she has been taking care of me. My tone is different, more pleasing. My outlook is more reflective, intuitive. I’m listening more to myself and less to the noise outside. My writing is better because my soul feels better….Like any beautiful woman, this house makes me feel like I am welcome.
Paint, gutters, window cleaning, tile replacement, that can all come with time. Little by little. And none of it will feel like a chore, but more like time spent with someone you adore. Like love pats felt in the soft strokes of paint brushes, kisses to the cheek as another window pain is cleaned, allowing more light to profile her charm, or like holding her hand with gratitude as I stand in the front yard and just gaze at this captivating belle….Yes, I love this house.
Phillip has started his own love affair with Honeychurch in the backyard. He’s been finding gems growing through the thick grass, rescuing them from the choke of the St. Augustine. He found a ton of bromeliads and fastened them to a fallen old oak using some of my yarn. Pots we hauled from our old dungeon of an apartment are now finally seeing the sun, and plants that Phillip sequestered to our balcony now have room to run.
So, you can see how much we love this house and how much we want the house to know that. We know that she’ll take good care of us, will shelter us, comfort us….and like any beautiful woman, will bless us with many more years with stories of her glory.
And I cannot wait to write those stories!
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