Gutted House

I've been watching the progress of one house on my street. It fell into dereliction during the residence of its owner who became more and more disabled and who finally moved into a home for the aged. Two people I knew had visited, and said that it was seriously blighted inside. I never saw it or smelled it. The elderly man used to have a german shepherd. We passed each other often, but the pattern was always the same. The shepherd would bark or growl and lunge at us. Neither of them were civil to me (and my dog) so I never got to know him. He may not have spoken much English. He was glad to have us harvest the loquats in front of his house, though. After his son went through the process of emptying the house, workers have been gutting the house. It appears to be just a shell now. Foundation, siding, roof, walls: everything is in process of being ripped out or redone.

 I can't help thinking houses are metaphors for people's lives. Can we revamp each part of ourselves, until we become new, at some point? And not just new knees and hips and corneal transplants. Can we tear down our outer shell, and construct a more porous one, with brighter windows, that lets in other people, welcomes new friendships, welcomes warmer connections, and become a warmer person, ultimately? Can we fix the supporting walls, the fixtures, and become more productive, live cleaner emotional lives?  I feel a fresher breath coming from the house, as I pass it at least once weekly. Although the yard is piled high with debris, the house appears more hopeful, sturdier, stronger, yet lighter, free of its sad contents, and I think it will once again offer shelter...for a new family.