A Safe Place

I’m an independent person.

Or am I? Actually, wait, let me rephrase that.

I like to think that I’m an independent person. Strong. Capable.

But regardless of how independent I think I am, I’m only a human being. I need a support system. Some time for healing. A place where I can breathe. A place where I can just stare at the ceiling, you know? A happy place. A safe place. I think we all need one. Mental, physical, or perhaps both. Perhaps a song, perhaps a scenery. Perhaps home, a place where you belong. But that’s enough guessing. Now, dear reader, let me tell you about this blessing, this safe place of mine.

My safe place is an old, red house with a big garden. The window frames are white, a striking contrast with the deep, rusty red of the walls. The large front door is open, welcoming all tired wanderers. You might notice the faint smell of a home-cooked meal wafting through the halls and out the door.

Everything is peaceful and serene. Warm sunlight dances on the dewy green grass around the house. The hustle and bustle of the city completely forgotten. Here I can relax. I can allow myself to be lulled to sleep by the soft swing of the hammock. I can relax as the birds around me sing. Here, I spend my time reading, writing, and painting. I chase after butterflies. I go dance around in the garden even when it’s raining, no one around to patronise or tell me what to do.

I’m free. I’m free to do what I please. It’s perfect. When I’m at the red house, my mind is at ease.

It’s my safe place.

What’s yours?