A quiet lake

John's new house is the most peaceful place I've been in long time. A sleepy lake, shrouded by trees. Green waters, walnut tree, grass. No ripples. White sky. Once, a fish.

Whoever built this house built it in tune with the lake. It runs along the water, and every room is wide and windowed. Nothing but time. Anywhere you go, light and silence.

I could sleep forever.

Things under John's care, grow. In five years, the garage will be neat and organized, shelves will appear, wood will stack neatly, and tools will hang on their racks. Flowers will sprout and flourish, and the deck will richly stain. "What are you good at?" I once asked John. "Really good at, like maybe one of the best in the world at?" "Fixing things," he said.

Houses come to life when people love them. John has the patient attention to awaken a house. Houses, in turn, awaken their inhabitants.

When I first moved into my house, I felt like I was squatting in a rich person's home. It was too beautiful, too spiritual, too gorgeously treed for what I deserved. Slowly, the house grew me. After three years, I felt its equal. Now we're both big.