the architect

When she was little, she obsessed over the details of old houses and buildings, so much so that she kept notebook upon notebook of scribbled floor plans she had fabricated herself. She’d add secret nooks and maze-like hallways to her creations, hoping to get lost in something similar one day. Her dreams were full of crumbling buildings and stone facades, overgrown gardens and basement kitchens. Ancient intuition told her she had lived in such a dwelling in a life before this one; there was no question about that. The dreams and drawings came from her bones or some spiritual place — the connection to them was unreal. She knew these places in a way one can only know through experience.

As she grew and as love found her, she began to discover her path in life as all her ancestors had before her. It was part of her calling — another thing her intuition shed light upon. Others crossed into and out of her life; some walked her down the road to pain and others to pleasure. Those darker forces caused her to question her intuition and they sent her back to her floor plans, dizzy with confusion. She doubted herself, then. It was always in her dreams that the houses returned, ancient, with cool and shaded rooms, fireplaces stretching from floor to ceiling, candles casting light and creating shadows as the flames danced with the drafts. Comfort came to her this way; she saw herself laughing and running through the halls of the homes she drew, hiding in shadowed corners and getting lost in one of the dusty stairwells. Her face aglow with joy, she would be reminded of her purpose and plan. Where the drawings ended there was a sense of endlessness. They were infinite. As she’d enter a room, she could choose a door that would open to the unknown. Upon opening, it would lead to somewhere new; the rooms grew in number as she meandered through. Over time, she realized this interminable quality to her drawings. Whatever she imagined would become. While awake, however, she often struggled to become.

Living in those secret worlds was easy. It was the actual living that posed the problem.

Think of your drawings, her intuition would remind her. Design, edit, grow, edit, follow-through. Believe.

In what life had she lived that things came easily? The true answer would be none. Life is set to challenge you and you can live in your dreams or you can make your dreams your reality. She was no fool; she knew this. Back to the drawing board she went.

When she was little, she imagined herself living in the floor plans she designed. A special bedroom with wall-to-wall bookshelves, windowed nooks, corner seats and tapestries hanging on exposed stone walls was always penciled into the second or third story of the floor plan. In search of comfort, she’d run there and discover peace, her secure place in the world, her refuge. It was always there — in every drawing — with slight variations but there, nonetheless. Where did this place belong in her living world? Where could she discover or create it?

Our paths are never straight and narrow; they are wide and full of twists and turn-offs. That’s the point. We have to decide where to go and put effort into the decision, knowing there are many right and dangerous choices. The foundation of her effort was trusting her intuition. When she stopped believing in herself, her efforts had to triple and this nearly wiped her off the path entirely.

In present day, intuition — though slightly muffled — is leading her to that room of comfort, to roots that she is destined to plant — her calling, as it were. She sits at the drawing board, sketching away. She knows not what her fingers are bringing to light, for this is the way her bones and her spirit create. It is in this that she needs to trust. Her intuition is at the wheel. It is the architect of her life.