This week, I walked around my neighbourhood and even a bit beyond. I passed underneath geese showing off their long wing span high in the troposphere while stretching their expansive underbellies. Sometimes, it’s just me and some quiet passing cars. Mostly, it’s just me. I like walking in the darkness of the early morning just before the sun peaks his head out to play. 

As I walk, I look at the dark houses and wonder who’s inside. What sort of life do they lead? Do they take cream in their coffee? Are they happy with their lot? Do they yearn for more? What are their hobbies? Do they even have any? How do they decorate? What is their style? Are they kind?   

I find myself lost in thought as I continue my walk until I pass an unfinished house, currently in the process of being built. I halt, standing directly in front of it and for some reason, catch chill. There’s something about it.

The structure is framed and sturdy, yet without doors and windows. Air flows freely into the front door frame to the rear, giving a perfect glimpse of the entire house. The structure is there, yet all is hollow inside. For some reason, it haunts me. There’s something eerie about looking at this incomplete house, especially during the dark hour. There’s no carpet. No pictures on the walls. No cozy bed. Bare bones, no blood. Although the space it occupies is clearly defined, the interior is out in the open for all the world to see. Anyone could come in or go out. The words ‘drafty’ and ‘hollow’ come to mind. 

The image of the vacant house brands my mind and continues to nag me the entire way back home. It would seem that the house hasn’t yet been given a beating heart. There’s no life, no vigour. As of yet, it remains a skeleton. With no firm door or windows to fill the holes of the house, absolutely anyone can enter or crawl in through the windows. Thus, the house can offer no true protection.

Sure, there’s a roof in place that can shield slightly from the rain, and yes there are the frames that define the space that the house takes up, but as long as the front, sides and back remain wide open, the entire house is in some way, exposed. The boundaries are semiestablished, but not clearly set. The limit does not exist.

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My thoughts wander to my own house which always had a structure to it from the moment I was born. Growing up, i was often encouraged or compelled to vacate my own house to help clean or decorate others’ houses. After a while, it dawned on me that i had not yet organised and put a door and windows on my own house, let alone spent enough time there to even notice the lack and spot the problem. How could i? I was too preoccupied with others’ houses, making sure they were kept happy and healthy, taking on the responsibility for them as if they were my own. 

After a time, my house became abandoned and as a result, lonely and in desperate need of company. So, rather than finally pick out a door and drill it firmly in place and place clear glass windows that would protect from the swirling wind outside, i left everything gaping and outstretched in the hopes that someone, anyone would enter and liven up the place. What is more, i thought this was the way to attract and welcome. Leave things wide open and let anyone come whenever they’d like—all loosey-goosey like.

Unfortunately, i learned the hard way that where there is no door, or no clearly defined boundary, there is unlimited access and free reign. With the door left wide open—mine,non-existent—many did step inside, carrying the outside in with them—mud on their soles, grime on their hands. Some didn’t care to stay because my house was unkempt and chaotic and others wanted to peek at the interior, but eventually left. Often, i wondered why, but later realised my house wasn’t a happy or warm one to inhabit. I didn’t even like being there.

Lonely, frustrated, and frankly burnt out from spending so much time and energy in others’ houses, i was forced to acknowledge my utter fatigue. The problem of spending so much time in other’s houses is that deep down, you know it’s not yours. You have no claim. Somehow, i missed my own house, which i had discarded, so I came back to it. I returned to my house. I returned to my home. I returned to myself. And finally, I picked out a door. It was thick, sturdy, and made out of walnut, resting on steel hinges. I also picked out impact-resistant windows and fit them into place, sealing any cracks I found along the way. Protection was now granted.

Then, came the baptism. I cleaned from top to bottom, nook to cranny, crack to corner—scrubbing and opening a few windows to allow the gentle wind and powerful sun’s rays to come in and cleanse the space. As I swept, scoured, buffed and mopped, I pondered my interior design. I thought of my preferred style and what colours, patterns, textures, lights and lines that would form the space. Oh what fun I had doing it as well! I looked to houses that I admired, found spaces in magazines that I wanted to imitate, and called on nature to inspire. Patterns began to swirl and syncronise into place. Ideas and creativity blossomed and more and more, I found myself wanting to be in my house, in my home. I put on music and danced, twirling about until I became dizzy and would fall onto a cushion—laughing, sweating, crying, smiling…

One day, I heard a knock on the door. It was a small girl with big brown eyes and curly brown hair. She peeped in at the door and looked at the toys I had out on the giant rug and papers and pencils strewn about. Her already wide eyes gaped even more as she asked meekly if she could come in. I opened the door wide and took her by the hand to the toys. I made her hot chocolate and set a fire to warm her. She was content with the puzzles and we started to play together, building and then drawing and finally dancing. We screamed, we laughed, we cried. Funny, how it felt like I had known her all along. 

Amidst our gallivanting, another knock sounded at the door. This time, the little one went to answer. It was another girl with big browns and curly brown hair, pimples on her face and braces on her teeth. She peeked in the door and glanced at the books on the shelves and the warm fire blazing. There were also delicious snacks on the table that caught her eye. She too asked timidly if she could enter. ‘Open the door’, I grinned.

She came in, almost embarrassed at being seen, but I gave her a blanket and made her some hot chocolate. I set her in front of the fire, giving her some food to eat. She too joined in on the puzzle we were making, and slowly, over time warmed to us and we to her. In a matter of hours, we were laughing and joking and also danced together, holding hands. Our bond was sealed with laughter, tears and sweat. Funny, how it also felt like I had known the adolescent all along. 

I glanced back at the other two girls playing together, eating and laughing and smiled over them. My maternal instinct to protect them kicked in and I was hopeful for how their stories would turn out. I winked at the doll, tore off some grapes from its stem and joined the girls on the rug, renewed with a sense of love and purpose.

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Sources of inspiration: ‘Open My Door’ by Alice Phoebe Lou