A couple of nights ago I went on a later-than-usual romp with the Corgis and was reminded of what a lovely, sweet thing it is to experience the last bits of light and also the brightening of the light inside the house. For as long as I can remember, one of my favorite things to do is walk or drive in the evenings and see the lights on inside of homes; it represents for me the real meaning of the idea of home: a safe, warm place to be. Seeing glimpses of people moving about inside their houses has always felt like warmth, a hug, something safe and solid to hold on to.
So as I walked with the dogs I glanced back at the gate and loved its solid presence, then turned to the house and felt its warmth and love. I forget sometimes that November Hill is for me the culmination of a life-long dream. Living with family, horses, dogs, cats, wildlife, and the trees, gardens, insects. Whenever I saw warm lamplight in windows my mind careened forward to now, and in now’s moment I paused to say thank you to the universe and everything that has led to this home and this place.
We read about time travel and astral travel and all kinds of ways we go from one place in time to another. These moments when the past and the present curve together is the reality of those concepts, I think, especially if we stop and fully experience them.