After the death of my father last year my family and I flew up to Oregon to stay with my mother-in-law.

Dad’s death had left me worn down and physically damaged.  The strength it took to carry him through those last days left me in need of some care.  Some healing time and some much needed rest.

Our escape to Oregon would provide just that.

My mother-in-law’s house was a deserved respite.  The house is not particularly out of the ordinary.  Just a basic two story house located up in the hills of Eugene.  Wood floors and carpet.  Walls filled with paintings provided by my step father-in-law’s mother.  The entire house has an aura of relaxation, of late night conversations over good food and good drink.  It was a discussing place, an artistic refuge, it was a place to create.

I could tell you every detail about this house.  Wide, open kitchen filled with windows that open on to the front yard.  A wall of windows.  The whole place is filled with windows.  The first thing I loved to do was open all the blinds and be engulfed in a wall of light.

Ever time I visit I trudge upstairs to my sister-in-laws bedroom since she has a balcony.  She always lets my family stay in there while she sleeps downstairs.  And for some reason I always feel the need to make that bedroom my own.  I rearrange furniture, move beds and dressers.  I always leave that room exactly the way I found it but while I am there, I am truly there.  That room becomes my sanctuary and I claim every space.

I readily admit I become lazy and selfish during this trip.  This is such the place to do that.  This is the place to sleep late, eat breakfast in the afternoon, journey into town and have a late dinner.  This is a place to have my mother-in-law make tons of popcorn cooked in brown paper bags.  To drink the best coffee.  And to sit on the couch and watch movies, read books, and write endlessly.

It was a place to grieve, to do nothing, to escape from the world inside a loving space.  That house most certainly represented that to me.