I think that sometimes in life we walk through the metaphorical house and open all the doors and windows. We seek to let all the wind travel through our vessel and bring in the dust and leaves and blow around all the objects and papers we have placed in their places. The same fierce wind we must bike into as we travel on our way home from work each night acting as heavy resistance on flat slopes that suddenly feel like steep grades.
While airing out the house is necessary, some doors get stuck, and it’s hard to close them once again. Sometimes we need to replace the doors and sometimes we need to tear down a wall and rebuild the house, so as to let the wind flow through in a more beautiful way. The doors and windows and walls of our house are what hold together our inner beauty and also what can trap it from the sunlight.
I feel as if, currently, I am dealing with a grey canvas. A canvas only grey because it is simply saturated with every color imagined. All hues in all tints and shades. Indiscernible chaos until closely examined. The smell of catharsis and major change blows in through the window like a barbecue in the neighbor’s backyard. A tired creak in the staircase is about to meet saw, drill, hammer and nails, and maybe even a little wood glue. The worn roofing is due to be replaced and the driveway is going to get new asphalt.