In My Father’s House

I had this recurring dream of visiting different versions of my father’s house. Each time, I discovered hidden rooms, gathering dust in unknown basements, uninhabited wings, and upper decks that once served as hospices.

If my subconscious were a film, it would be dark—mostly in black and white. At times, with a heavy red undertone. All full of cobwebs.

The dream hangover was often marked with despondency, not seeing those rooms transformed into something that I hoped to be beautiful and livable. I felt sorry for the wasted potential of those rooms.

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… or could this picture of Valentino Garavani’s Château de Wideville have inspired my recent dream? (Photography by Simon P Watson of Archdigest)

This morning, I woke up from a different house. It’s no longer my father’s house, but it still had plenty of rooms. I explored them with wide-eyed curiosity instead of trepid investigation. A joyful older couple resembling colleagues at a past job owned the house and graciously showed me around. We climbed the stairs to the second floor and stopped at one of the children’s rooms before moving to the home library that had glass doors that opened to a balcony.

This time, my dream was in full color—pink and vibrant as the rug in front of my ottoman here in my Chicago apartment.

* * *

Somehow the dream turned into something else. Still the same couple hosting a party in a smaller ground floor room. I knew he was in the house; in some room upstairs. Then he came down and we sat on the same couch with a couple of others. Nobody else saw his vulnerability, but me in our silence.

Sometimes God allows our hearts to be broken so we can be whole again.