In Komorebi

Oh, man, being here is magical!  Something I never even believed could really happen or I could really have.

The afternoon sun is shining low through the winter trees, day’s eye looking at me.  The crows and the gulls are squawking and calling round the house.  The fire has its own sound in the stove.   The walls around me and roof over my head are wood with its beautiful aroma.   Wool blanket, cotton skirts made by women in America, pots from Japan, Morocco, Rajastan, England.  Baskets woven in Norfolk, in Ghana.  A world in here of artistry, the things of earth and trees formed into beauty, drawn into something that feels like home.

Here is the peace I hoped for.  This is what I wanted.  In this place I would never have to say anything because anyone who came in here would already know who I am.

When I met Michael Lorence in New Jersey, he said to me that Diana had always felt invisible, and Innermost House had made her visible.  He said that in the same way he thought Komorebi would make me visible.  He meant it as a kindness, like a gift, but I felt alarmed – not at all sure I wanted the unforgiving light of the world’s eye to fall upon me.   The vole that creeps along the bank is not pleased to catch the cat’s attention.  

But I realize this is different from being dragged out into the light.    Coming into this space allows something to become visible that I have tried and failed to communicate.   One room, where nothing can be hidden or absent, but nothing needs explaining, because it is, simply . . . here. Michael was right, but unexpectedly.   A wise man.

Here I could abide where in so many settings I feel merely detained.  Oh, I love this little house.

Day’s light fading as the sun sinks low.   Wood popping and snapping in the stove.  A blackbird singing as dusk falls.