Siren of Grace @sincerexsiren - Tumblr Blog

An Introduction to Grace House

If you moved through the trees you would be freckled with the little specks of light that permeate the leaves in the dense foliage. It’s a halo of light and green, giving you no glimpse of the sky above you, but the clouds knowing that you are there. The light finds you and you are left wondering if you should chase it down the warmth of the isolated, lengthy road. It brings about a childish memory of days in summer sun; the kind of days you were told to come in because it was too hot but in your childlike invincibility refused.

Even with that surge of unbridled energy, you don’t want to move too quickly down the crunched dirt that meanders through the thick ancient trunks of cypress trees. The air will tell you that, coating your skin. Some people think of it as just humidity, too much moisture left clinging to pores, telling you to get out of the heat of the southern summer.

How on earth did people settle here anyway? The heat clings and finds every single part of you to work its way into. It holds you tight, relieved only for moments as the moving breath of air puffs through the branches and reminds you only what a moment of relief feels like.

If you stop and listen, really listen, the leaves will tell you something else. They whisper and the heat of the bark when the sun hits it grunts and groans. This place, this sacred place is so filled with life, it needs to remind you, needs to tell you exactly what you approach.

That is if you didn’t know already. You shouldn’t, but there is no other reason to wander down these sticky southern paths, to be blessed with the baptism of sun on skin. And baptized you are in sun and bright light as you emerge from the trees and into the openings of lush green patches. The structure in front of your eyes stands as brightly as the sun, bathed in white paint and large pillars that reflect its age. It could be young…might be were it not for the fact that the landscape has grown around it for centuries.

Yet there is youth there, in the warmth of the plantations houses porch, which wraps around the house in a warm embrace. When the wood of it squeaks, it’s in a warm welcome in spite of its age.

This is sanctuary after all and if you weren’t supposed to be there, the land would have never let you come close enough to see the slight chipping of pearl paint or the small copper rust that lines the chain of the swinging chair to the side of the open, silk shrouded french doors. Home cooked fish, crisp and welcoming mix with the summer smells of lemon and tree bark. It draws you in, that sweet smell, like the crystal blue eyes of its owner, they wear down defenses and stir something deep in the bottom of your belly. Like the ivy that works its way up the pillars, you become ensnared and woven into the structure. You become part of it, simply by needing it.

This is Sanctuary.

Welcome to Grace House.