Sometimes I think that my mind is like a big old Victorian house. It is three stories high with a half dozen rooms on every floor. On sunny days it has a certain quirky charm with its lacy gingerbread trim and ornate towers and turrets. It changes appearance, however, with the weather. On stormy days it it cast in darkness; the peeling paint and sagging porch seem suddenly sinister and foreboding.
There are so many rooms; I find myself wondering from one to another. There are rooms where I can imagine and create. There are rooms for more practical things like making biscuits and mending clothes. There are rooms for rest.
Occasionally I find myself ascending the narrow stairs to the attic: the place where the memories are stored. If I am not careful, I can get mesmerized by the contents of the old trunks and dusty boxes. When this happens it is difficult to find my way back.
The one place I try to avoid is the basement. It is dark with walls of grey concrete. The dirt floor is damp. The air is dank and murky. I wandered down to the basement once and allowed the door to slam shut behind me. I stumbled from room to room, looking for an exit. Just when I had given up all hope, I laid down against the damp earth and looked up to see a sliver of light. There was one tiny window that provided an escape to the outside world.
These days I prefer the sunny parlor on the east side of the house. It has a big bay window. I like to sit in my rocking chair and look out at the parade that is my life. There are so many amazing things to see and hear and feel. And they pass by so quickly.
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