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Dwell in Possibility

Limitations live only in our minds.  But if we use our imaginations, our possibilities become limitless.  Jamie Paolinetti

Life is a field of unlimited possibilities.  Deepak Chopra

Nothing is set in stone.  Everything is up for our most outrageous imaginations.  Miriam Dyak

You know that dream, the one where you’re in a house, maybe your own house, and you’re wandering through its rooms and all of a sudden you discover it, the entryway leading to a closet or a corridor or a universe that you didn’t even know existed, and you just can’t believe it, how good it feels, how expansive and wonderfully surprising to move forward into this world of new possibilities?  It’s a dream that changes you, that reminds you that life is bigger than you thought it was, that you are free to leave the corral of limiting thoughts and run wild in a world that spans beyond your known horizon.

I lived this nighttime dream in my daytime life when I was a little girl,  and I still can feel how viscerally exciting it was.  I was a seven-year-old- first-grader the spring my parents decided we needed to move out of our small New England colonial into something bigger, something that would fit the two grandmas and the grandpa as well as our family of six.  And although this new something was just a few blocks away from the house I’d lived in my whole little-girl life, there was no comparison.  This place, a former sea captain’s mansion on a street of former sea captain mansions in the shipbuilding town of Bath, Maine, was huge, as huge as New York City or Hawaii or maybe the whole entire world.  And on a hot day in May, while the tulips were blooming along the neighborhood stone walls, I stepped through this home’s front door and a universe of possibility became mine to explore.

Our family was not financially wealthy, but we sure snagged a goldmine with this mansion that my parents bought for a bargain.  It had everything, an elevator big enough to hide in, a front foyer as spacious as a dance hall where little girls could twirl in pirouette after pirouette after pirouette.  It had a bay window in the den, perfect for the balsam Christmas tree that we chose from our property at Fish House Cove each year, and another room with a piano where we put the television that we inherited from our Grammie Emma.  It had a dining room with two different closets and a back staircase that we raced up with fast-little-kid feet and a front staircase that we slid down on our little-kid bottoms.  It had closets in hallways and closets in bedrooms and closets with built-in chests of drawers that we used as perches for our neighborhood clubhouses.  It had seven fireplaces.  Seven of them!  And one of them was in my very own bedroom!  And it had a mantle for my china animal collection and it was made of slate and I propped my chalk board against it and sometimes I wrote with chalk right on the fireplace itself!  And the attic was right down the hall, a winding hall that passed by my parents’ bedroom and my sister’s bedroom and my parent’s bathroom and even more closets — and the attic was the best, the very best!  The attic was that room in a dream that you just don’t expect, that room that is so wonderful that it simply can’t be true.

But it was true.  And it was ours to explore, this third floor attic that spanned the whole front of the house and became our gateway to the limitless world of imagination.  While our calico cat found her way into a another realm of expansion by crawling up into the rafters and disappearing for hours on end, we kids discovered our own world upon world of possibility.  There was a hardwood floor perfect for prancing and dancing and there were cozy nooks for doll-playing and boardgames.  There were built-in book cases with old and musty offerings from another era, a creaky swing chair and a horsehair couch that looked like it should be in a psychiatrist’s office.  There was the built-in puppet theater and the cedar closet that wasn’t a closet at all, but a whole other world within this magic world where stoles with tiny animals heads with beady eyes hung from hooks and boxes of baby clothes became our dolls’ finery.

We kids loved the attic.  We loved our mansion house.  And I don’t remember one ounce of resistance when we packed up our things and moved from our colonial into this bigger place.  I don’t remember the pang of wanting to hold onto the familiar, though I loved so much about that first home of mine — the staircase that became my stoop for contemplation and the etching of the giant oak that my grandfather  created so long ago, and the rumpus room where we rumpused and romped and watched Walt Disney and Teddy Bear Playhouse on our black and white TV, and the lilac tree in the backyard that became our outdoor playhouse and the giant rock across the tiny street that we mountain-climbed with gusto.  It was an easy move, an exciting move, four blocks and a world away from that first home, and I settled right into the abundance of it all.  And the possibilities for play were endless and we kids endlessly took up this challenge and were endlessly tickled by each new discovery.  And I still feel tickled when I think about it all.

And what would it be like to feel that tickled about the possibilities that lie in front of us now, to move into a bigger mind space where there are closets spacious enough for clubhouses, and foyers that become dance halls, and front and back staircases to race up and down, and an attic that opens to the whole entire universe?   And what would it be like to take the cue from the child within us and settle into this mansion of a mind with ease and know that all is well and that the excitement, the treasure, the fun will find its way to us, that we don’t have to work so hard to figure it out, to make it happen, the thing we want to happen, that it will happen when we relax into this high vibe mansion of a home in our mind?  And what would it be like to know that we are worthy of this place, that it is available always, that it is free for the asking, that it is here in this moment just waiting for us to walk up the front steps and open its mansion door?  Let’s open the door.  Let’s dwell in this place.  Let’s play!

Happy New Year!  May it be filled with feel-great possibilities beyond our wildest imaginings!

 

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The Sea Captain home of my youth: Bath, Maine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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