I moved.
Relocated. Changed my address.
Packed up all my stuff
and hit the road.
Not by choice.
Nevertheless.
I moved
and
continued the process
of making my life
smaller and smaller
and smaller still.
Because smaller feels safe
and it feels happy,
and smaller
just feels like a place
where I can spend the winter
tending to the frayed edges
of my weary soul.
God led me
to just the right place.
I call it The Elf House.
When I first walked in through the front door
I expected to be greeted
by a small herd of
welcoming gnomes.
It's full of tiny-this
and tiny that.
Tiny handles
on tiny cupboards
and
tiny bathroom
with tiny window.
Most of my friends
have closets
bigger than the
square footage of my
combined
living room and kitchen.
But I'm ok with it.
More than ok, really.
I don't feel much like an elf
myself
but it seems an elf house
is just what I need right now.
Hardwood floors creak in my elf house
just like they did
in the house
where I grew up.
The place has a smell.
It's a combination of
time-worn
lived-in
and perhaps
the collective life experiences
of the people who came before me.
People who made pancakes.
And grilled cheese sandwiches.
They got ready for work
in the tiny bathroom
in the morning.
They fussed over
the tv antenna
with rabbit ears
and foil
and maybe
they would know
what I mean when I say
as annoying as it was
I would love to change channels
with pliers again
just one more time.
I bet they did that here.
Many years ago.
Now there is a satellite dish
on the roof.
I won't use it
but it's there.
I bet the big trees towering over the place
wondered
what on earth
when they installed it.
And now
to set about
making a tiny little empty elf house
into a home
for a weary spirit
and her shrinking world.
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