Marsh House

I look out the window and there’s marsh. It surrounds this once humble stone barn on three of its four sides. You never hear people talk about their glorious view of the marsh. It’s always the mountains or the sea or what have you. But I’m telling you, the marsh keeps you on your toes. It rises and falls and stretches for miles, cattails and fiddler crabs and muck, an organic stew teeming with life and death.

The house is similarly complex. The kitchen is on the ground floor, and the dining room, living room, and bedrooms on the second. On the floor above that is the primary bedroom and on the level above that, a paneled study, perfect for writing.  I am constantly ascending or descending stairs before sitting to accomplish something and realizing I’ve forgotten my glasses. Then, I’m on the stairs again.

But wait. This is the opposite of a complaint. I woke to three deer in the front yard, gently feasting on the pachysandra. I watched for a while before leaving them to it and walking downstairs and downstairs again to make coffee, then back upstairs and upstairs again and again to write.

I look out the window and there’s the marsh. It strikes me I’ll never get used to this place, and it strikes me even harder, hallelujah.