this little structure pulls me to it like a motherless child. i am a spiral of emotion and fullness when i see it's loveliness with gaping holes and wood covered windows. i can't drive past. the attraction is like an untold story from a life i didn't know i lived. and it's settled deep in me refusing to let me deny it, but never letting me know exactly what it is i'll never know. so i keep being drawn to houses that are partly strong and solid and partly rotten and crumbling. there is the blush of delight, the bubble of joy, the smile spread across it's broken front like a handful of dandelions clutched and drooping in the grimy fingers of a happy child. i want to lean against the stone. i want to dream in it's shadow. but i don't want to change a thing. i love it's story. i don't want a newly primped and prettily painted story. this is the perfect distinction between pretty and beautiful. she is already beautiful, my lovely little piece of yesterday. but she is not pretty. and doesn't need to be, her beauty surpasses it. clean and smooth and fresh and shiny would polish away her serene and effortless imperfect joy.

i love this old house. an old farmhouse. with the 'new' house built behind it {it's not in the picture, but the 'new' house looks like it was built around the 1890's}. this beauty has weathered so much. watched it's generations live & work & grow & die. and it sits there with authority, even in it's weakened state. old houses develop characteristics like a face. they often smile. in rare instances i see a scowl. but it's mostly a wry little smile. i was noticing today as i drove home along country roads from lynn's baby shower, how i love the houses that sit at an angle to the road. the old houses. the old working houses. farm houses seem to work along with their inhabitants. there is an energy that invades the whole property. years ago my aunt told me that old farmhouses are most often built facing south. so they seem to twist away from the road, to find the sun.