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There is one thing you should know about me: I think all buildings are haunted.
Not the “eek! OMG! RUNNN!!” sort of haunted, but a softer, more friendly sort of “I am not the only one who’s slept here, dreamed here, gazed out these windows” kind of way.
I don’t imagine that there are semi-transparent ghosts drifting in the hallway, but I do feel an easy comfort with the idea that other people, long dead now, have left their marks on my space, and that perhaps my contributions to the history of a house will be felt by those who come after me and comfort them as well. Its a spiritual thing as well as a physical thing.
I collect little tidbits I come across that speak to this connection I feel – I’ll share more with you as time goes on, but for today here’s a poem that hangs on the wall of my new pantry. Its was created by Diane Hanna at Stoneheart and it sums up this happy haunting quite well:
in those dreamy lands
there was a house and the house
spoke of love for the people
who knew its whispers
listened to its stories
wondered at its secrets
the people who lived long lives
here, the people
who called this house home.