as instinctual as rubbing two sticks together and praying for smoke; walking under the storefront awning if only for a three-second reprieve from the rain.
I’m not proud that it’s only in moments of survival I speak more tenderly to myself, prioritize sanctuary-building. I’ve always coped through building safe places where I could find them: creating a hollow in my childhood bedroom closet, buying cedar incense for the home I make in the guest bedroom, curating a playlist for the bus ride that pulls me away to a daydream built between the trees. but I remember now, why this has been my only unwavering goal for years.
a place of my own—less now of who I’ll share it with. how many times this silhouette of home has shifted, how often I have crept into the cracks in the floorboards, painted on another coat to blend in with the wall. how many times I have journeyed back to where I lay my head, only to hold my breath when I reach the front door. but this, a light that draws me forward; the front step waiting for my shoes, the floor anticipating the quick waltz of my feet, where I live every day like an exhale.
my home and its change of season. open windows in the leisure of long summer nights: open wine bottles on the coffee table and the walls adorned with laughter. fall, when a great romance makes a homebody of me—or maybe the garden in the sideyard takes to abundance: keeps me in a blissful frenzy until the last cornstalk’s knees buckle. winter still feels lonely, but never for long. I’ll move my bed into the living room, so I can linger by the fireplace and sleep beside the bigger windows, never missing a snowfall. the birds will be back come spring and I’ll feel stronger; ply open a paint can with a butter knife and recolor the kitchen to match the neighbor’s lilac tree. I want to retile the bathroom floor, walk absent laps in the kitchen with my bare feet; start a painting, never finish it, and hang it above the staircase anyway.
but for now, I’ll bring what I can to my own four walls. I recognize the purpose and promise of this: a church is made by its space, by its practices. I’ll clamber out of bed at seven, continue to spend mornings running and reading, eat meals in the quiet when I can, slowly, thanking my body for all its work. find lavender to dry by my bedside, write in the low lights and lit candles, leave the room awash with fresh air whenever weather allows. I’ll craft a haven that cradles every joy and sorrow, but doesn’t hold them to keep.
the importance of sanctuary. I will build this house, outward and inward. where I say to myself and every corner repeats back to me, you’re safe here, all of you is welcome.
with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
venmo: schuylerpeck