Twenty One Grams.

There is a theory, somewhat controversial and often discredited, which proposes that when a human being passes on, the body weights exactly twenty one grams less then when alive. Thus it has been suggested that this is the weight of a soul.

I wonder, if one could weigh my white house on the hill today, whether it woudl be weighing less than when I lived there. As these days it certainly feels as if the "soul has left the building".

Selling a home is a strange process. No matter the reason, whether one wants to do it or is forced to, there is a certain feel of termination of life in this conduct.
I believe a home is created.
It is built out of love and affection and supported by people, by their laughter and tears and foremost by their presence. Once this is removed from a building, it becomes an empty framework, a lifeless construction, a foreign place.

I take very little pleasure in visiting the house these days.
I do it nevertheless - out of necessity - on regular bases and will continue to do so until it is sold. The selling however is not going all that well I am afraid, considering the financial crises that has spread once again through the world like an infectious disease.

Thus the house, that one place that once brought me joy, safety and comfort has now become a burden. A lifeless shell, a forced commitment, a financial affliction. It comes across like shackles around my ankles, keeping me imprisoned in the past, preventing me from moving on into my future.
It is today a far cry from the place I once knew and loved, so endlessly removed from my perception, demanding my care and draining my energy.

I never ever believed that I would feel these kind of emotions. They are a mixture of sadness, deep melancholy and a bittersweet recollection of another life all together. One that is only removed a few months in time, but decades in my perception.
It is a very odd realization and a truly shocking surprise.

Thus I linger there only for a moment.
Almost immediately upon entering I am enveloped by a feeling of being in a foreign place. My things are still there - I recognize all the furniture and the decor - but it does not feel at all cosy or familiar. Even the scent is different. I catch myself being in a hurry as I water the plants, open the windows, sort through the surface mail. Dust of the shelves, sweep the floor.
I simply can not wait to be on my way again.

In short moments though, when I gaze at the framed photographs of familiar faces and sit down for an instant, gazing out of my westbound windows at a stunning landscape and open sky - a wave of memories comes sweeping back.
But they do not stay with me, it seems they only pass me by, reminding me to remain thankful and most of all respectful.

They caution me to never ever forget the beautiful moments I once spend between these walls, together with all the people that helped me made it a home.

One day I will leave it forever.
It will become a shelter for someone new, keeping them happy and safe.
One day new life will move into the white house on a hill and bring back its soul.