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	This old house
	March 31st, 2018
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	I'm standing in an empty room facing a large bow window stretching
	from the rough wooden floor to a rounded arching top. There is
	some dust and dirt in the corners and fallen between the floor
	boards gapping slightly with age. To my right is a door to the
	hallway and eventually roof access. Behind me a closet holds shoe
	boxes of memories.

	I know the layout of this place intimitely, though I've never
	really been there. It doesn't really exist. In a sense it is my
	memory palace [0]. In another sense, it is like the Hi'ngwikan of
	the Lenape people and I am its a-la-pa-cte [1]. It is a private
	place of prayer and solitude where I can organize my thoughts and
	intentions.

	[0] Method of loci
	[1] Lenape "Big House" Ceremony

	I don't remember the first time I went there, but I do remember
	that it started with that window. I can still count the panes of
	glass, see the smudges of fingerprints I've left, note the
	imperfections in the glass as it distorts my view. These details
	give it permanence that I find vital. Knowing the texture of the
	wood gives me a comfort that I need to let myself be free. It is
	through that freedom that I find peace.

	- - - - -

	Earlier today vilmibm posted [2] about what home means to him, and
	how he is able to find it digitally by just finding a quite space
	and connecting to his familiar tools, music, and communities.
	I love that sentiment. I have anxiety over the question of "where
	is home" or "where are you from". I could probably blame the Roma
	heritage but that feels like cheating. In reality, I just don't
	associate a physical place with home at all. Though I might wish
	an online community or my digital environment to become home like
	vilmibm has found, I don't think that fits me either.

	[2] vilmibm's feels (2018-03-30)

	No, my home is a dusty old house with a big bow window that always
	has a different view when I look through it. I know where I keep
	the memories of relationships past (in that closet on the bottom
	shelf in a white shoebox), and I know that when I get really sad
	I need to go out onto the rooftop garden and greenhouse and let
	the light pour into me.

	- - - - -

	Tonight I felt some of that sadness coming on. At first I thought
	it might mean I was going to have a good evening writing (it's
	much easier for me to write when depressed) but I felt it take
	a sour turn in my mind. So, instead of wallowing I spent a little
	time in meditation and prayer in my little old house. No sooner
	had I sat on that dusty floor and placed my hands lightly on the
	wooden slats when a cloud broke and a fresh beam of sunlight
	warmed my cheek. Like everything in that place, the symbols speak
	a language I understand intuitively.

	That sunlight is what I needed tonight. That's how my prayer
	works.