Walking up the path, I see Tibetan prayer flags, fluttering in the breeze. Dogs come running, barking, wagging their tails. There is a clicking and clacking of huge bamboo wind chimes hanging from the porch roof, the sound making me think of Africa.
Next to the bamboo chimes, long aluminum chimes with a mellow gonging tone sound like nothing so much as church bells on a Sunday morning.
The porch is large and square, with a roof, and acts as another room for the small mobile home. There is a porch swing, for sitting and swinging by the hour, sipping tea, cuddling and singing to small children, for sitting and thinking and, especially, for sitting and not thinking.
In the small front room, rainbows dance when sunlight shines through the row of fat prisms hanging across the front window. The babies love to see the rainbows dance! There are First Nations masks, a Tibetan singing bowl, an Asian gong, African drums, soapstone elephants from India: all of the cultures representing the rainbow heart of the person who lives within.
There is music, of all types. There is silence, a mellow peacefulness that visitors respond to, especially the angry or troubled young people who come here to spend time with the resident crone.
There is often loud cackling laughter.
There are books: many books, stories from many lands, tales of the spirit, of transcendence, of humanity and hope.
There is restfulness here, and ease. And gratitude.
It is.....my home, my refuge, my sanctuary.