https://reinventionsreena.wordpress.com/2020/05/07/reenas-exploration-challenge-134/
We talk of communing with Nature, but ’tis with ourselves we commune… Nature furnishes the conditions – the solitude – and the soul furnishes the entertainment.
John Burrough
A lonely, broken down house sat at the edge of the woods, its windows boarded, its roof partially exposed to the elements, its occupants roosting in the rafters or hiding in secret holes bored into the walls. The house could feel the ghosts of past occupants still wandering its hallways.
It wasn’t always so. Seventy years ago a stranger came to the woods, felled trees and lovingly constructed the house with hard work and fine craftsmanship. He had married, raised a family, made the house a loving comfortable home and took care of its every need for decades. But time moves on, as did the children, and when the parents died the house was boarded up, left alone and forgotten. Except for the forest creatures.
A lonely, broken down man, haunted by past ghosts stumbled through the forest in pouring rain, trying to exorcise the demons from his mind. Uncaring of the rain penetrating his torn clothing he cried to the heavens in anguish, cursing God for his misfortunes. Tripping on a tree root, he made no effort to rise, but wallowed in self pity and remorse as the rain washed away his tears.
After a while the rain ceased and the sun found a gap between the trees to shine its light on him, filling him with sudden warmth and hope. His anger spent, but feeling very weak, he attempted to rise and continue moving forward. No destination in mind, just mindless wandering. No one to witness his plight but the forest creatures.
As the shadows grew longer, drooping from weariness, weak from hunger and thirst, he entered the periphery of the forest and spied a derelict house. He slipped and slithered towards the house as the heavens opened once more showering him with its blessing. He pulled a board from the window and clambered inside, plopping to the floor in exhaustion. He passed out and the next he knew the sun was filtering through the missing board on the window.
A pigeon cooed from above and a small creature scrambled across his leg. He lay on the floor, eyes closed, listening, a long lost feeling of peace entering his soul. Stirring, he ripped the boards from the windows, letting in the light and proceeded to explore the house. Yes. This will do very well, he mumbled, a place to call my own, a place to heal, to reflect, to gather my strength. With a little work I can make this a comfortable home. He felt alive once more.
The lonely house sensing the eagerness of the man knew it would not be lonely anymore, it would be cared for by the man, as it in turn would shelter and harbor the man from the storms of life. Perhaps the forest creatures would stay as well. All were welcome under its roof.
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There is a solitude of space
A solitude of sea
A solitude of death, but these
Society shall be
Compared with that profounder site
That polar privacy
A soul admitted to itself —
Finite infinity.
Emily Dickinson
This is a gorgeous little story. I love the parallelism, truly poetic, in the words “a lonely, broken down house” and “a lonely broken down man”. Beautiful ending. A fairy tale one would hope is really true.
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Thanks, Jane. I prefer fairy tale endings, though it’s not always possible. It would be nice if we could all live happily ever after, but life gets in the way.
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So, finally they found each other…
Emily Dickenson’s lines are haunting –
A soul admitted to itself —
Finite infinity.
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Thanks, Reena. Yes, a house can be a friend. That’s what I like best about Dickinson’s poetry, I can read it over and over and never be bored.
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Reblogged this on Reena Saxena and commented:
Solitude …. a haunting story by Len
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Thanks, as always Reena.
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When my father finally had to leave his home of nearly 50 years due to Parkinson’s Disease, as he drove out of the country driveway, he turned one last time and said to the house, “You were a good home.” Leaving that place, and while moving into a nice retirement development for “active seniors – 50 years or older and him being 86, seemed to increase his rate of decline and he passed a year later. The difference between a house and a home is the same as the difference between finite and infinity. Great post, Len!
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Thanks, Gary. We get attached to our homes like it’s a member of the family and it’s hard to let go. That’s why I have tons of empathy for you after you wrote your heartbreaking blog on losing your home and all your personal possessions in that devasting wildfire that wreaked havoc on your home town of Paradise, California. Nursing homes/retirement centres are not the same as home, but sometimes it’s all we can do. I’ve had that experience with my mother. Makes you wonder though, as this COVID-19 is devastating retirement/nursing homes in Canada with extreme death rates at many facilities.
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I enjoyed the read, Len. Different dimensions explored well.
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Thank you for your kind comments Kitty. Glad you liked it.
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Interesting read… I love Emily Dickinson’s poems! They hold so much meaning in them… the house for that men represented family and comfort. Something a lot of us lack even through we’re surrounded by people
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I hope he finds his solace.
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He did Chelsea, he definitely did.
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Loved this Len, a lovely story ended beautifully with Emily’s poem.
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Thank you for your kind comment, Kate.
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Great post.
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Thank you Indira.
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