Vermont Rebirth

I stood in the doorway and watched everything I owned disappear into an oversized moving van. Boxes slid across the hardwood floors, their hollow sounds echoing through the rooms. What remained was more than empty space. It was the soft closing of a chapter I had built one careful piece at a time.

The house was a relic. A true Sears home ordered from the Sears and Roebuck catalog in the 1930s and assembled on the land when it arrived. When we moved in, it was dark and neglected, worn down by years of being ignored. I brought it back by doing what I always do, paying attention.

We sanded the original floors until they shone. I pressed fern leaves onto the windows so their shadows fell across mint green walls. I wanted the outdoors inside, something beautiful, soft, and alive. On winter nights we clicked the remote and the gas fireplace glowed, filling the room with the relief of a long exhale.

But the heart of the house was the quilt.

Eight feet by eight feet, stitched in blues and greens in a log cabin pattern. I had sewn it a year earlier, working late into the night with my hands moving ahead of my thoughts. On the back I wrote in fabric ink: Through my creativity, I found peace and happiness living outside the box.

Each strip was a fragment. Cut, rearranged, and stitched again. A visible record of injury and repair. When it was done, it felt less like something I made and more like something that guided me. Out of what once felt broken, something whole had appeared.

Now the wall where it hung stood bare.

I had given the quilt to my therapist. It now hung in her waiting room, absorbing the stories of those who sat under it. Leaving it felt right. Some things stay with us through their absence. Some things continue their work after we walk away.

“Lisa. Lisa.”

Dorothy’s voice brought me back. Over the years she had become more than a friend. Her presence steadied me without effort. I called her Dotty. She wore the same light brown wig every day, soft waves framing a round face with rosy cheeks and a gentle glow. Her skin felt warm and soft, the kind of comfort that made you want to stay a moment longer.

I often pictured her carefree, scarf around her neck, sunglasses on, riding in a convertible with the wind lifting her curls. In real life she was grounded, intentional, generous with her time and heart. Everything I was learning to let myself be.

She stepped close and placed her hands on my cheeks, holding my face with a tenderness that carried strength. She looked into me as if confirming something she had known for a long time.

“You are no longer sick,” she said. “You are well. And you will keep getting better every day you stay away from what harmed you. Trust yourself. Believe in your intuition. Everything will work out.”

Behind her, Uncle Ray pulled me into a hug that pressed the air from my lungs. He whispered into my ear, “Fly, Dragonfly. Fly.”

Outside, the moving van waited. Inside, the house stood stripped of what I had poured into it, my labor and my healing. Yet I felt lighter than I had in years.

I was not leaving a house. I was leaving with myself whole.

As the moving van pulled away, I closed my eyes and said to the Universe, “Show me a sign I am doing the right thing.” I opened my eyes and a car pulled in front of us with a license plate that read TRUST. I breathed a short sigh of relief. Thank you, Universe, for confirming my decision.

Then I heard the soft, familiar voice I had come to know.

All is well with your soul.

All is well with your soul.

A bright day is approaching.

You no longer hold the darkness that once lived inside you.

Cheers to the start of my rebirth! Vermont here I come!