The Inside of a Small Home

I saw the inside of a small home today, a home built by four hands with dreams and passions and nails.  A home made to house future imaginings.  A home built for two made into one.

The builder talked about the way they had stained the wooden doorway piece to keep it resistant to rain and to create the start of a beautiful threshold.

He showed me the old tin lining they had collected from an antique store and painted, scratched, and painted again.

He talked about how they had found weathered pieces of wood from a torn-up barn waiting on the side of the road to be reused for something just like this.

He showed me the little hidden places underneath the bench, a bench that had just the right dimensions that had been sketched and resketched.

He told me how they had cut the ladder and painted it, and it had turned green, like it had been left outside for days.

He showed me how the wood turned colors form termites that had eaten away the inside of a tree, leaving an indigo swan song.

He showed me the pop up space in the bathroom for a hairbrush, popping it up and mimicking its use.

He pointed to the earthen paint and the small drawers to hide things away, and he told me of the utmost importance to have a large kitchen to have room for many guests with many dinners.

They had made it from nothing into something that two people could create.  A place to rest, to dream, to build, to create, to love.  And as I sat on top of the loft with the skylight built in for last glimpses at evening stars to send them off into the dream state, I saw how every place, every corner, held this intention.  The intention of creating a home.

I also saw how this home was never going to be as it had been imagined.  That this home was going to change and evolve into new dreams, new faces on pillows, new builds, new flowers in vases on counters, new books to fill a half-filled shelf, new laughter, new tears, new dirty feet, new mouths for new cups of tea, new snuggles, new life stories and processes, and new worlds colliding, contracting, and expanding.

This home this man had built.  This home this woman had built.  This home they had built together.

We build our dream houses, and we build them beautiful.  That is the only way.  And sometimes, their beauty only rests its head for a moment in the way we envision.  Sometimes we put our hearts, our heads, our blisters, our sweat, our nails, our designs, and our imaginings into spaces that materialize different than they are conceptualized.  But we build these spaces beautiful anyways.  It’s really the only way we know how to build our dreams, even though we know this man’s house, this woman’s house, this beautiful house, is always changing.

What are the stories in the walls of your home?

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