My Home

One day, while out exploring, finding treasures for my home, I found some shiny bits of glass, and called them for my own. I set them carefully, arranged to best show their beauty, alongside the other cherished items I have found. My collection was vast and exquisite. Even the kings of earth would marvel with oohs and ahhs. In my collection, even universes might be found.

I was the caretaker, the curator. Tending to and caring for each and everyone. Like children, to me, they had become. Each unique and marvelous in their own way. Each more precious than a thousand lives filled with every desire imaginable. I protected them and held them safe. Gave them each a place their own. Honored them all as wonders and joys in my life.

One day as was my want, I journeyed into the darkness, shining my light, exploring and discovering. Examining each and every opportunity, seeing potential and possibility, feeling which might like to come into my life. So many times have I gone out to explore, seldom returning without some treasure to love. This time, this moment would be far different.

I had journeyed far, seeking the most unusual and precious of treasures imaginable. Perhaps I became lost or maybe disoriented. I suppose I may never know, however it forever changed my life. My bag full of wonders and awesome treasures, I began my journey back home.

As I opened the door, I felt something, as if another had come to my home while I was away. It saddened me so much, for so seldom had I visitors and who ever it might have been was now long gone. They must have been special for it seemed my collection had been touched, even dusted and cleaned. Each and every treasure slightly rearranged yet in such subtle ways.

I wanted to cry, not for the changes, but because I had missed the opportunity to visit, to share, to feel with another in this reality of possibilities. Hidden in the darkness of time, only to be revealed/discovered under the light of being. I unpacked my bag, and carefully arranged them in their places alongside all the others. Perhaps someday, the visitor would come back. Surely they enjoyed my treasures. It had been a long day of exploring and I was tired, and so I rested.

As I have done so many times before, I arose to greet the day and set out to explore in my usual way. My exploration took me far and distant, finding new treasures to cherish and take home. It was a good day, and the thought of the visitor soon diminished as again I did as I have always. Tired but excited, I headed home and was not prepared for what I found. The treasures of yesterday were nowhere to be found and those on my shelf seemed untouched. It was as if the visitor had just been imagined, perhaps, I was so tired yesterday, perhaps I only wished/longed for such. I was without words, for the feelings inside washed away my thoughts. Resigned, I set about doing as I always have, arranging the newfound treasures and dusting them all. I found myself making subtle changes in their position, their orientation. I found myself leaving them as I had found them on that yesterday. Perhaps, I wished to believe the visitor had come and so arranging them as such.

That night, the dreams I had were filled with longing and sorrow. Where had the visitor gone, did the visitor even exist; was the visitor manufactured by my own desire?

After a fitful night of wondering, I shook off the maybes and might be's and strengthened my resolve. Today I would explore with such intensity, that I would find a treasure so wondrous as to be unimaginable. And I would never wonder about the visitor again

I took a longing look at the shelf of treasures, gathered my tools and set out to explore.

I traveled in darkness leaving my light unused. Despite my efforts, I was still affected by the visitor, which surely was just a figment of mine. I lost track of time and didnít care.

Tired and humbled by a day of exploring, finding no treasure worthy of my collection, I headed home, looking forward to resting and tending my treasures. I arrived and was surprised to see the treasures I had discovered the other day carefully arranged on the shelf where I had put them. Something strange was going on and I was clueless. I finally fell deeply asleep. And in my sleep, I dreamed that you, the visitor, came into my home. You touched the treasures as though your own, and came to where I slept. I felt you touch my cheek, with such tenderness and such love. I wanted so to have the dream last forever but such is not the way.

I awoke and gathered my tools, just glancing at the treasures there; it was then I noticed the note, stuffed beside the treasures I had found on that other day. The visitor has been here again, why had I not seen the note this day past? I hurriedly opened it and found "Thank You" written in writing familiar but not my own. Perhaps all the years for living alone have caused me to imagine, to manufacture, a visitor or some illusion of such. I didnít know and wasnít sure I wanted to know. I set out as I have on everyday.

It seemed I had lost the desire to collect treasures. My exploration seemed more like wandering, purposeless and pointless. All these treasures seemed meaningless and devoid of the potential the visitor might be. I arrived home again to what seemed some cruel trick. Surely I have gone insane, or perhaps the years had taken their toll and I was now a shell of what I once was. All my treasures sat on their shelf, arranged as I had left them, except for some new ones I had never seen before. I marveled at their wonder, their richness, and their newness. I wondered when I had found them and how might I have forgotten. It was time, I felt, to retire, as I no longer felt my work a task I could perform. I made some subtle changes in their placing and cleaned up the shelf and took my tools, set them in their place. It was time to rest and I was finished.

In the darkness I felt my way to my bed. Something was different, or so it seemed. A feeling I had never had flowed over and through me. A bit frightening, a bit exciting. This must be how it feels to die, I thought. All the signs were there. My memory failing, my explorations fruitless, my home changed without my knowing.

As I moved closer to my place of rest, the feelings I felt grew more intense. I wanted to cry or to laugh but surrendered to it all instead. I pulled back the covers and felt movement. It was a strange feeling to die, I thought. And as I began to climb into bed, I felt something. I reached out with my hand and felt softness and warmth. I gently and carefully touched, caressed. Dying was not quite what I had expected. Suddenly, from nowhere it seemed, a hand reached out and took mine. Pulling it into the warmth. I felt the tears began to flow and wondered why I had not died long ago? And it was then I realized, I had been your visitor and had been in your home. And had marveled at the treasures you had found as though my own. You had thanked me and now, you rested in a place like your own.


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