I dreamt of our old family house again last night. I was sitting in one of the rooms, surrounded by bookcases packed with old, dusty volumes on one side, costly bed-linen and layers of clutter stashed in massive wardrobes on the other. My great-grandfather's desk in the corner filled with his belongings, left untouched for decades after he had died, every drawer storing tangible proofs of his existence, every little thing oozing with a benevolent presence as real as my own.Such images of my childhood home continue to resurface in the dream world, with the past and present converging, both unsettled and upset, seeking closure where there can be none. The house was sold years ago under difficult circumstances and an important chapter of my personal history came to its abrupt end. In many ways I continue to deal with that loss, my emotional attachment to the place undiminished by the passage of time.
However, within the confines of my mind that house is assuming a healing power, bringing renewed sense of belonging and restored awareness of who I am and where I come from. Rather than being a mere repository of melancholic memories, it feels like the impenetrable fortress of my boyish escapism that it once was. Resurging in my dreams and meditations, uncalled for but warmly welcomed, it remains my home.
