house/sitting

There is no television in this house. No microwave, and no stereo except a portable player, currently unplugged. There was no computer til I brought in my laptop. Outside there are no barking dogs, no music or loud voices to show that the neighbors are home. Inside, the heater isn't running nonstop: in fact it's a little chilly here, but it's quiet. Oh, so quiet.

There are no children in this house. No running feet echoing the floors, no singing or nonsense noises, no fighting, shrieking, screaming, or crying. No sounds at all, except the whirbling of this laptop and an occasional staccato from the corner, where a rabbit sits in a cage. Those are the only sounds. Really. I have to listen again to convince myself it's true.

This house has nearly equal amounts of space and stuff. The part that makes it most beautiful to me. That, and all the stuff seems to be here for a reason. There is one couch only, in the living room. One large plant by the window. Blinds on the windows that face the street, and not on those facing the fenced back yard. Matched handmade pottery bowls on open kitchen shelves. Unvarnished wood counters and stainless-steel appliances. It's a kitchen to be in for a reason. Gourmet cooking, or maybe writing. Or maybe thinking about my own reasons for being here. Not 'here' in any existential sense. Here, instead of the house in which I normally live. In which I normally survive.

The saddest part of survival mode is getting used to thinking in not's. First there's the extras that you negate. Purchases, dreams, soul-nutrition: the category of 'extra' is expansive, and always expandable. Not right now, we can't do that. Not this month. Not this season. Not this year. Then there's the not-rationalization, where you try to feel better about your situation, and perhaps about your choices (if you acknowledge such things as part of the situation). At least we're not ___. At least we didn't do ___. At least ___ didn't happen. At least we have it better than ___.

Sure there's some intention of gratitude in those negatives. But my point is, there are so many lovely yes's in this world, waiting to be appreciated as well. So many powerful yes's, waiting to be given life. When do they get their turn?
When in holding one's own does growth become an option?
Where in the struggle for us does compassion for others get an invitation?
When, in the constant sound, does silence get its moment?
Where in the nonstop asking does gratitude get its place?
Where in the tangle of electrical wires and piped-in entertainment do we find acceptance of all we can live without - and all we can let go?
Where in the giving-up and going-without is there a welcome to all the potential yet invited to live with us?

There are no visible yes's in this house. Nothing that I need to plan, intend, or be on time for. Nothing to which I am asked to adjust or commit or contribute. Only bring in the mail, turn on a few lights, feed the rabbit. There are no no's here either. It's a fine place to rest, in the absence of both answers, until something comes a little clearer.