I found my Dream House, really I did. Not the idealized architecturally significant wonder home, or the cottage hidden behind hollyhocks and a white picket fence, but the place that I visited in several dreams. I haven't had that particular dream for some time, so the real one was as abandoned and decrepit as it would be if it was a barely remembered, deserted dream.
Just like the one I dreamed about, it was an old farm house, two and a half stories, build close to a hill that rose up on the north side. In the dream, I was walking beside the outside walls, down the hill, through dry, sweet smelling weeds. And I can smell the water, wet rocks, and sun shining on grass.
So, there was the real one, sans the green painted clapboard and brown trim. Paint was a distant memory here. Part of the house was built of logs and the lawn slanted gently toward the water. A sycamore grew down by the clear, spring fed stream.
Like in the dream, crickets make way for me and silhouetted birds sing in the trees. I hear an oriole and a king fisher.
A ruin stands nearby, an old kiln that looks like a place in a fairy tale.
The white paneled door stands open. Do I enter?