Many years ago, I saw a simple pen-and-ink rendering of a house. I immediately felt it was the house that would one day be mine—my family’s home. I immediately felt a connection. I wrote about it, had it framed at my favorite frame shop in my neighborhood, and immediately put it on my wall.

The picture is simple. When I see it, I see an old barn house surrounded by mountains and trees. I see solitude in the branches of the trees in the foreground. I see possibility on the horizon that extends beyond the hills. I see room to grow. Even the fence is welcoming as it bends just a little. This could be where I grew up. This could be where glaciers stop, earth plates collide, and mountains form. 

This could be where someone had the constancy and persistence to build a barn. Barns seem permanent to me. They stand as a symbol of abundance and productivity. Communities used to raise barns together. Lazy people don’t seem to need barns. I am not lazy. I want a barn, a house that was once a barn, or a barn that could have been a church and is now a house.

This is a comfortable space for me. I see sharing this space with animals. I see sharing this space with friends and family. We will dance in this space. This space will breathe art and smell like roses and peonies. I hear coyotes howl. I see eagles fly. My hands are busy. My heart is full. The buzz of happiness tickles my soul in this space. Even the frogs in the pond have smiles on their little frog faces. This is the kind of place that has to be shared and explored.

I currently live in a 100-year-old factory loft in a large city — a far cry from my pen and ink dream. When I look sideways at my life, it makes sense to me. My mountains are buildings. My coyotes are a piece of public art outside my background. My city lives in a forest. My consistency and persistence come from trees and skyscrapers. My solitude is the rattle and hum of the urban engine. Magnolia and honeysuckle are the perfume that wafts from a beautiful park. Train brakes and police sirens sing a song. Traffic is a dance.

I dreamed of home when I fell in love with that pen and ink sketch. I still long for home. I still long for connection. I still long for presence. I still long for the immeasurable joy that even the frogs I imagined in that sketch knew. I have lived in cities my entire adult life. I have never chosen to live my pen and ink dream. My home has never been in an old barn house or church. I have never built that kind of home. My dream includes walking to restaurants, a balcony overlooking the city, and a work-from-home office. My rhythm suits a city.