Making breakfast for Chase this morning, the vision began…or maybe it simply emerged after resting in developer all these years in the photo lab of my mind. I was cutting the crusts off the thick nutty bread when I imagined the house: white with New England blue and green accents. A big country french table in the kitchen.
I was folding the cream of coconut into the eggs and milk and vanilla thinking of the routine: rising early, making breakfast for my guests, having lots of copper cookie cutters so that I could adorn their pancakes with seasonal powdered sugar designs. I would have NPR-ish music in the background, unobtrusive, likeable, not well-known musical art. Those who woke early would drink the best coffee and watch me cook or visit. The ever-changing guests would linger over breakfast, and leave by noon ..that I might nap and read and walk the beach and shop for fresh ingredients for tomorrow’s daily bread.
I was dipping the bread into the egg mixture when I saw the rooms: 3 maybe…no more than 4…with my suite on the far end accessible through a secret passageway; french doors leading the way to the gathering center of the kitchen; cozy cushions around the hearth. Monty-cat would be napping in a window seat; memorable reading would be stacked here and there for those who preferred the stimulation of words to the view of the water.
I was carefully arranging the toasted coconut french toast on plates when I considered the sign, by the front door, welcoming people in with the verse that has guided me this far by faith: Come to me all who are weary…
And as I placed the apple bacon on the plates I imagined myself on the big porch, waving goodbye to my guests: coral toenails, ankle bracelet, multi-colored skirt kissing my calves and near the door, the hand-painted driftwood plaque naming my sanctuary: