how to mend a broken house

It was love at first step. It was everything my ex-pad was not--spacious, bright, quiet, and with an indoor "garden" where a hammock and some greens would fit in nicely. It had a porch canopy perfect for smoking and sipping coffee when it's raining. I imagined my lamps softening the glow of the walls and my collection of books from home filling the off-the-rack shelves. Cozy. The bed, air conditioning and shower fixture were new. And the acoustic was just perfect for my modest speakers! Like everything else in my life before June, this house rocked big time.

And then, it rained. Hard.

I came home to my rugs, shoes, candles, brooms and pans floating merrily on a lake that was my kitchen and living room. You'd never have thought there was a regular swimming pool growing inside by the completely dry porch and doorstep outside! And here again, my simple teacher's mind was stomped by Indonesian engineering. It seemed like the drainage pipe in the kitchen--yes, inside the kitchen!--was too small for the downpour, and so the water overflowed. Of course. 

The next day, I had to chase out (with a wet broom) a spotty frog hopping  gaily around my kitchen floor. He was no prince like 95.5% of the male species, and right then and there I knew my short-lived love affair with my house was over. 

My former love started to show other cracks besides, proving itself to be truly unworthy of my passion past. The faucets dripped; the kitchen sink plumbing leaked; two light bulbs exploded one after the other; the AC took all the patience of saints and martyrs to cool; two cats staked a nightly matrimonial claim on top of my beloved canopy; and vendors started sticking pamphlets on my gate. What's more, there were no neighbor-hunks washing their cars in tight cut-off jeans on Sundays!

Don't think I haven't tried mending my broken house. I have--with all the single-mindedness of the archetypal female dominatrix. But, the house--like this country, like my heart--is too stubborn and too laid back for any kind of full-fixing. 

The funny thing is, it soon developed a sort of a reluctant charm for me. I found myself looking forward to breathing in the jasmine scent of the oils I burn every time I open its door. In the middle of work, I'd miss the music I play nightly reverberating around the house. I had gotten quite used to the odd but delightful tweeting of birds drifting from beyond the indoor garden where my rag-tag potted plants blossomed and greened as well! Somehow, I feel comfortable wherever I sit or lie in this house. Somehow, I find myself surprisingly smiling sometimes... no, most times... because I like the way my familiar things fit in it--and cushion my hurts.

The house, like most people, has its hidden charms in spite of the cracks. The house, like most of us, keeps a secret strength and warmth in spite of its imperfections. It is there if one has but the patience and grace to see. 

This house and you? You might be soul sisters/blood brothers in a tale told at an angle to reality.