The Farm House

I drive by this place every day. What strikes me is that it’s still standing. Half a roof missing, door almost always open, sometimes shut (probably a ghost). Windows smashed and boards are missing. It’s a bit of a mess. 

Then I thought about it in its heyday - probably literally, given it was a farm house. There are always two stories, no? Was it love and kindness within the walls, the warmth of which made this a home and not just a house. Or, was it hate and violence. The shuddered and avoided reality of being apes first, and only later developing the rest of our brain. 

It’s a bit like us, in that way. Having felt love and warmth or hate and violence. Being. capable of love and warmth or brutal, terminal violence. Or both. Having pieces of our skin, or our hearts, shaved by the environment we find ourselves built in. Having good days and bad days. Feeling the weather, but then also protected at times. Or, maybe you’ve always worn the weather.

Regardless, boards can be changed, windows replaced, roof reinforced. Walls can be built or torn down, the fire can be lit. Love can be welcomed in, hate pushed out.
I guess we can all be a little bit like this. The difference only in being our autonomy to make these changes. We can choose to do nothing, stay the same. Or choose to throw up scaffold and fix the damn thing.

Despite all these changes, you are still very much you. No one can take away essence, being, soul. No-fucking-body. So don’t let them tell you otherwise. Stand strong on the ground, regardless of the weather. You’ll let the rain and wind in sometimes, but can decide to fix that when you’re ready.

And wherever you find yourself, practice standing tall and proud.