The Man-House Meditation…Part III

Copyrighted by Lorna Tedder. Originally published in Third Degree Curves.

It’s been about six weeks since my meditative  work took me into the metaphysical  houses  of two different men. I didn’t call them to me…they called me to them, and there I was, without warning.

The Long-Awaited Honest-to-God Secret to Being Happy

This night, I unexpectedly  find myself in one of the metaphysical houses again, and this time it is busier than I’ve ever seen it.

The house is the same as I remember on the last two or three times I was there. Not too large. Something of a cottage or small house, actually, and with a strong mother influence.  The  first  times  there, I’d  come  through  the front door and been impressed by his office—his work— and all the people there in need of his services.

The last time there, I’d come in through a side door and wandered about, looking at the quieter corners while he wasn’t home and talking with his mother. The bustle was elsewhere but I kept to the more secretive rooms.

This time, I arrive at his house and see it from the front as I did the first time. The grass is green and well- kept,  clean-cut  and   professional.  The  house  is  in  a neighborhood, all at once a quiet, reflective place and still at the center of activity. There are other houses  nearby, yet some sense of separation,  as though it’s on a cul-de- sac. Cars are parked along the street. Buses, too. This is a busy place indeed!

I don’t enter the back way or through the front door, the front door leading directly to a reception area where he and his staff work. Someone farther inside the house is where he sleeps,  when he sleeps,  and where  he  retires from the bustle of visitors and clients to be alone, except when his mother is present to tidy up his messes and en- tertain unexpected guests in his absence.

This time, I enter through a door to the left, a door that goes direct into the reception area where many, many people are waiting.

There must be 50 or maybe even 75 people here to see him, some to demand his services and others to plead for them, but all here for him, for his work.

The girls are with me. So is their friend Brian. We wait patiently for a  while before we realize that we won’t be able to talk to him today. He is too busy with his clients, and they need him today, far more than we do. We could demand  his  attention,  march  past  the  receptionist  and asked to speak to him between clients, but I know that he must focus on his work today.

The girls  and  Brian  wander  around,  chat  with  the other people  there, and I find a comfortable seat in the corner. A woman sits next to  me and tells me that she will wait as long as she needs to if she can see this man and receive his special gifts.

I’m embarrassed because I’m not here for gifts of that type. I think I’m here to give something to him, but he’s not available yet and the lines are long.

Other women and their families sit close to me, and they begin to talk to me about what they like about him and what a blessing his talents are to them.

Another bus  pulls  up  in  front  of  the  house.  More work to be done. More people who need his attention.

I smile to myself. I can hear him in the next room, at work. I can’t see him through the open door, but I hear his advice  to a client and see  them  leave,  relieved  and smiling. His work is special, more than he realizes. On the other side of the wall, he doesn’t see how he effects these people. He really does not know.

But my bus is leaving and I gather the girls and their friends and  usher  them  outside.  I  look  back  over  my shoulder and  catch a glimpse of him through the open door. He’s completely captivated by his work, listening to every word of the person seeking his help.

He doesn’t see me, but it’s okay. He’s doing what he’s supposed to  be  doing right now, and he’s too busy to know that I can see him there. There’s no time to think about the quieter rooms in his house  right  now, or the empty ones.  He is bustling  and busy,  and he is doing good.

I leave, sad for not demanding my opportunity to say hello, but smiling for what I’ve seen. He should be proud of his work.


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