The Ghosts in My House

I bought my first piece of property on July 28 of this year, at the age of 38. I never thought I would come to this place in my life. I had somewhat resigned myself to a life of renting. But, due to the house in which I had lodging being sold, I was forced to find other accommodations. Whereas I do not believe in the hand of the Universe, the deux ex machina coming down to rememdy problems with a wave of the hand, some mystical force was at work in my favor for this venture. I found the perfect residence for myself, at a price that was laughable for the town in which I live. Its not a palace, or a poorhouse (thank you Eddie Cantor), but it is the perfect size for a single person and has all the amenities that I could want.

An old dwelling. Built over 100 years ago with a foundation and skeleton as solid as a grandfather's attitudes. The building was converted into two half-house condominiums in the 1980's, but a good job was done with the conversion. The surgery was careful and performed with skill. No scars remain. Of course, in the years between the original construction and my acquisition, renovations had been performed. Ceilings, walls, flooring, appliances...updates had to occur. But, this is like the makeup with which I adorn myself each morning. A touch-up layer over a strong, but aging frame. And, some areas have yet to feel the hand of the contractor. The house is still mostly "old." And in the old, lie ghosts.

Not Amityville-esque spectres, but the crystallized spirit of the years ingrained in the wood and stone. The ghosts of laughter, tears, health, illness, anger, contentment...for every emotion there is energy. And energy can neither be created nor destroyed, it can only change form. From its manifestation, the energy of emotion makes its way into the surroundings and transfers its power into the molecules and atoms of the structure in which it is housed. Houses capture, store and eventually (when the quantity is sufficient) give that energy form. Ghosts.

I have many ghosts in my house. I feel them often. I live alone and, therefore, have not the distraction of others to block the signals. And, I am sensitive to energies. I was born on the last day of the last sign of the Zodiac cycle. All things psychic and mystical flow through the signs and land squarely on my shoulders. I feel the ghosts, but I do not fear them. What is there to fear? They speak to me of the realities of life; the normal and expected trials, tribulations, victories and wonders of lives lived in this place. Men, women, children...all have contributed to my ghosts and I actually welcome the company. I am part of a line, a family. This house has been passed on, one family or individual to the next; each transfer passing with it the energy of the lives of the residents who have come before. Now they have been passed to me. I find that peaceful.

In some places, I can see the ghosts. Now, a botanist would argue the simple structural reasons for my ghosts, but I have no truck with plant-lovers. In the path between my bedroom and bathroom, I have made some friends. They say hello in the morning and "sleep well" at night. This one




gives me a robust "MORNIN' DARLIN'" every day. A perky start to the day. I am sure it is a "he." The voice is loud and strong, filled with confidence. When I exit my bedroom, he is there to greet me. Some days, he is quiet and I take this as a bad omen. Being energy, ghosts are connected to ALL energy and this includes the energy of nature. They are also connected to forces, as forces and energy (and matter for that matter) are three sides of the same pyramid. He is my yardstick for the day. By his greeting do I measure what the day holds in the ready. He is mature and has the experience and wisdom that ensures he listens to and acknowledges the subtle, yet signficant signals from the surroundings. I trust his judgement.

A few steps along the route to the bathroom, I bid hello to this one




Another male, I believe (my ladies are closer to the loo, as would be expected). Younger and less experienced. Eager to chat and deflated when I cannot linger to converse. He is an exuberant inquisitor - how are you today, what are you doing today, who will you see today, when shall you be home, what are you cooking for dinner, what are you going to do about this and that issue...some days, I find this helpful. It organizes my thoughts and assists me in setting up the schedule for the day. Other times, I feel as if my brain will burst from the torrent of questions, images, enumerated obligations and responsibilities. On those days, I hurry past. That makes him sad and confused, I think, and that discordance ripples through the energy that ties me to the ghosts. My day will be set into a spiral downward. When I have the presence of mind, I return to him and linger a bit. I listen to his questions and provide the answers. When he is happy, my day is happy.

Right at the entrance to my bathroom is this pretty lassie




She was a beauty in her time, I suspect. She comments and critiques my ready-making in the morning and her words are honest. You look tired this morning, how will you cover those circles under your eyes, you skin is more sallow than usual, have your cheeks fallen in more, what is the issue with your hair, your nose is quite red today, so are your eyes...many days, I look in the mirror and ask the question "why bother?" My physical appearance is not appealing. On good days, I resemble a heroin addict. On bad days, I resemble a tapeworm-ridden heroin addict after a few rounds with the Angel of Death. Regardless, it is sometimes very hard to muster the motivation to apply makeup and fix my hair. No matter the effort, I still make strangers nervous. Men do not demonstrate an interest. For what reason should I take the time to primp and preen? Turning to leave the mirror, I spy my little ghost. She wags her finger, clucks her tongue in the manner of the impertinent young. You make the effort for you, she says. Self-pride is all. I turn around and begin to apply my cosmetic camoflauge.

This one I hear from rarely




and I find that saddening. She is old, very old. And, I think, she is also very wise. But she lives in a room that I have set aside for visitors. And, I have no visitors. The room is bright, decorated in blues and appointed with colorful floral images. It contrasts markedly with my own bedroom, which is darker and rich in shades of the Earth. The guestroom is a very happy room and I think she likes it there. But, I don't enter it much. I don't really have a reason to do so. Sometimes, I do go in and we exchange a few words. But she doesn't know me well, yet, so the conversations are brief. I am hopeful that we will have more occasion to talk in the future.

My house has many ghosts. These are but a few, but the few I see most often. One day, I shall leave my ghost for the next resident. That poor, poor bastard...