There are dwellings in which the soul of the place rises up out of the ground; in which that spirit would be felt through blindfold and bodysuit.
My house in Arkansas is one of those.
There are houses with no soul at all; or houses with hopeful, almost-soul. The apartment in Little Rock was the former, the house in Springfield was the latter. The apartment in Brooklyn had 100-plus years of rich heart and human soul leached into the plaster and wood; it sheltered and cradled and stroked.
And then there is this apartment in Denver.
It is a wonderful place, architecturally exceptional, too new to reflect my heart back to me. I don’t yet know what its heart is, except that the place has a Teflon-y ability to shed what I express into the space. I haven’t been here long enough to know for sure. It is a sympathetic-but-faceless space
Writing will change it…maybe not ceiling to floor, but enough to instill the space with character. Cooking will change it. Friends’ visits will change it. For now, I resemble a ghost in my own life. The energy I release into the space vanishes into air.
Let the words fill it. Let my will fill it. Let my heart be bigger than the lurking not-ness. Let time give the space—and me—what they need to be. This can be a Writer’s House. In time.