Working on rehabbing this house has felt almost spiritual to me. Every time I spread mud over a section of a wall it feels as though the house is sighing in relief and gratefulness for the healing and soothing salve I am applying.  Some new paint and light fixture, and I can nearly hear her saying "I'm feeling pretty again.  I never thought I would." When refinishing the hard wood floors, I swear there is an almost audible voice telling me about the many generations of children who had happily slid on them in years past, despite their mothers chiding them for doing so.  While working in the kitchen [by far the most labor intensive room] I will occassionally catch a whiff of fragrant bread baking or a turkey being roasted and imagine the people [the love] that had filled this tiny house during holidays.

I have even attached names to the jug-eared,freckle-faced youth I visualize hanging from the limbs of the tree right outside of the mudroom, and the aproned woman urging me to repair the frame holding the incredible stained-glass artwork in one of the windows.

And the names and faces?  I originally found them in a box that was hidden in a corner of the crawl space. A box filled with hand tinted photos of men, women, and children who had been a part of this houses existence for many years. A box with old report cards,christmas ornaments, ROTC awards and dozens of newspaper clippings. 

While regrouting I find myself whispering promises to the "Grand dame", telling her of how we have a friend who is preparing moulding identical to the original which will be put up next month, and assuring her that, soon, there will once again be laughing children decorating a Christmas tree in her front room window, and that maybe, just maybe, I;ll be able to convince the next people living within her protective walls to hang one of the Christmas ornaments unearthed in the deepest part of the crawl space onto that tree.

Not almost, this has definitely become a spiritual experience for me.