I love when people ask me if my 138-year-young home is “haunted”; this, in fact, is one of the most frequent questions I encounter.
Yes. Yes. It. Is.
It is happily haunted.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Every house, new or old, contains its own unique energy. It either works for you or it doesn’t. My house aligns vibrationally with me in truly mind-blowing ways.
Within the walls of this house: I am transforming, moving from transient survival to blossoming authenticity.
Within the walls of this house: I have finally become someone who creates – words, objects, art, opportunities. Not just occasionally or accidentally, but intentionally. Every. Single. Day.
Maybe this is what happens when you move into your very own life-sized manifestation. Maybe it is my “ghosts”. Either way, I truly believe that this house loves me as much as I love it.
Not to say it’s been easy. Uncertainty has been a constant companion since we packed up our U-Haul in Staten Island and headed bravely, stupidly, blindly west. Paul and I have held a total of 7 different jobs in 3 years. There have been health crises, money crises, family crises, and unplanned-repair crises. At every corner there seems to be another setback or challenge. It’s exhausting.
But somehow, it always turns out OK.
So I trust. I trust the Universe. I trust my intuition. I trust this crazy-ass journey.
When Paul and I first moved into the house, we did not have jobs. The last owner, a professional house flipper, bought it as a fixer upper home to inhabit with his girlfriend. When the construction dust settled, the girlfriend left him. He had this house on the market for 19 long months when first saw it in July 2016.
In his desperation to rid himself of his Victorian-sized-headache, the owner agreed to rent to us for a few months. BUT: he wanted us to buy the house the very moment we both had full time employment.
In his attempt to vet the authenticity of our ardor for the house, and our commitment to buying it, whatever the circumstance, he mentioned something about it being haunted.
The thing I now understand, after getting better acquainted with the iron-willed spirit ladies of my house, is that it definitely was haunted – for him. They didn’t like him, and I don’t believe they were shy about letting him know. To be fair to said spirit ladies, he made very poor renovation choices and over-modernized the Victorian kitchen and was a pushy jerk. But I digress.
Shortly after moving in, resumes still fluttering in the wind over Cleveland and unsure how long I’d be searching for work, I sat in the parlor and meditated. I asked very simply for the Universe to send whatever resources we would need to afford this home that I already loved.
I heard an almost immediate reply: “You do not need to support this house – this house will support you.”
These words have stayed with me every day since.
In a truly miraculous way, shortly thereafter, Every. Single. Thing. that needed to happen for us to buy the house fell into place, and before that crazy year ended, we were first-time homeowners.
I feel the vibration of love and a non-stop flow of creative, fiery energy every time I walk through the doors. I fit here. And it’s not surprising. My understanding is this house has been owned, over the last century and a third, by a string of independent, community-minded intellectual women. I’m their kinda people.
Sarilla Dayton was the first inhabitant of the house and likely directed the design of all of the rooms and details I love so well. The sketchy info I have been able to gleam from the inter-webs is that she likely used the generous, gracious rooms to gather like-minded women as a “Member for Life” of the American Home Missionary Society, whose mission was “to assist congregations that are unable to support the gospel ministry, and to send the gospel to the destitute within the United States.”
Yesterday, I literally stumbled over three boxes of her family’s history and photos while taking a volunteer orientation tour of Geauga Historical Society’s Library.
Everything happens for a reason. Seriously. Sarilla wants to be known, and I finally know where to start.
Yes – my life is haunted. And I love every minute of it.