I have good bones, the sort of house that will remain standing through earthquakes, hurricanes, and tornadoes. My bones are hewn of ancient white oak, rescued wood from an old barn in Pennsylvania. I am built traditionally, with mortis and tenon joinery, despite my modern design.
I am a modestly proportioned open-architecture house with airy rooms and many windows, oriented to the south-west, overlooking the sea, or perhaps it is a desert. I have a view far into the distance, and those who are near to me can see plainly within, all except the hidden interior rooms, which few people ever gain sight of. I am more than meets the eye.
I am furnished comfortably and simply. Nothing is overly planned or decorated. I am graced with splashes of color, a bright rug thrown here and there over the cool polished mud floor. My inhabitants gather around my hearth, and in my kitchen on cold nights. In the heat they take comfort in the cool breeze that I pass through from transom to transom. During more turbulent times, my job is to protect, to adjust my inner workings to the unexpected events that come from outside.
Many live here—human, spirit, canine, feline, insect, bird, and rodent. I am nothing without those who dwell within. If I had no life within my walls I would cease to exist, for a house is nothing if nobody lives inside of it. In this regard I am high maintenance, requiring constant upkeep, the reassurance that I am loved, needed. While my bones are strong, the rest is rather fragile. One thrown stone would shatter my glass walls.
