Everything is melting. Not me, I think, but everything around me. I have slept for two nights in my new home, and I feel my spirit reaching out to fill it, to touch all the corners. It’s a very long time since I’ve had something I called ‘home’. At least eight years, maybe more. In a way I hardly dare to breathe the word, for fear it will all keep melting and melt away. When I came here, to Nelson, thirty-one years ago, I loved this place. A lot fo sorrow came, and a lot of loss. I walked into homelessness in a real way, and more sorrow still. I left here three years ago, thinking never to return.
Some years before that, in a ‘manifestation group’, I drew in words the picture of the home of my dreams. The ground floor of a big old house with a wrap-around porch, flowers in the garden, in a very specific neighbourhood. It arrived two weeks ago. Later in my dreams I added a porch swing. The swing arrived last night. Today was hot, but the house is shaded on all sides. In the morning the kitchen is full of honey-coloured light. It shines on the glass bowl where fruit is ripening.
Later the shade trees embrace the house, and the breeze brings in the sweetness of lilac and mock-orange. Through the trees there’s a little opening where you can see mountain and sky, just enough to remind you where you are.
My new room-mate is supporting me to at least put my toe in the water and begin to explore the potential of my new, largely voice-driven computer.
My landlord dropped in – he’s the same age as my youngest son, and I offered him a tarot-reading. Everything feels softened. The place I have been living since I returned from China is grey and hard and angular and bare, and the atmosphere is like grey bitter crystal, sharp on the corners, muffling all sound, its main decorative features a dead piano, a dead organ, and a lovely wall clock that never ticks or strikes. The furniture is not made to be sat in, and the lovely hearth hasn’t seen a fire for years. It has been a hard and monastic winter.
My spring trip to Vancouver Island showed me that Nelson is my home. Once again I feel my heart open with joy and gratitude for being here. It’s been a while since I’ve had that feeling and now, like colour pouring into a grey-scale picture, it’s coming back. Everything is full of colour and sweetness and fragrance and moving air. Friendship feels as easy and natural as singing.
When I left China I felt sure that if I came back to Nelson I would die there. Now this doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. No rush. Just the sweetness of the mountain weather, the long cool wet indistinct springs, the deep silence of the winter snow, the cool wind rolling down from the mountains at the end of a long hot day.
Sweet harmony is the core meaning of the Three of Cups. Three waters flowing into each other, each distinct but each flowing into the other, braided water. The sweetness of life.