by Mali Arun
The house welcomes the living, wise people, and crazy people. It welcomes the rain, the winds, without judging, without putting labels on beings. It lets weeds grow and walls crumble. Magical. The house taught me the odors of wood, rust, and motor oil. It allowed me to hear how a piano and a cello sing, Bach and Gurdjieff. The memories it holds continue to shape me, like bricks of my own home.