As you go about your day and your life, you are building a haphazard house. It’s not a house of stone and wood, but rather a house of mind and body. You are not the only builder, but you are the primary one. Whispering in your mind, the Beloved suggests placements and plans but leaves the construction to you. This is free will.
Some will tell you that the key to happiness is to build a house of clear order and design. They will tell you that bad habits are poor architecture and that good habits are the proper result of programming life. This is mere foolishness – no matter how you might scheme, you will always yet still be building a haphazard house. You do not know enough of building or of life to orchestrate out a master plan. You inevitably fail to get perspective enough even to know what and where you build.
No, happiness is about thoroughly enjoying building.
You are building always, even if you suppose you are planning. You are attempting to understand the terrain on which you build by looking through the windows you are currently building. In large part, your haphazard house determines your perception – and how can you create windows of unlimited perception while your perception is limited?
Space and time are scales of perception, nothing more. The One who lives outside all houses can build houses of any sort, for He is intimate with all things. And to each of His Children he gives the Beloved – that immediate presence of spirit that is always with you, but shapeless until you choose His form by perception. The beauty of Christianity is that the shape and manner of the Beloved is given and made immediately recognizable, but that is also its drawback. For the Beloved, even when understood as Christ, is unbound by dogma and culture. When you insist that the form of the Beloved fits your understanding, you refuse Him from your house.
We must, eventually and inevitably, let go of all our drawings in the dirt. In the peripheral vision of consciousness, unbound to the degree that you narrow your attention to a mindful immediacy like your breath, you can witness that the haphazard house endlessly shifts form. Those rooms you thought were the very heart of the house are torn apart to make room for new. Some connecting hallways are kept immaculately clean, while others have in them piled the dust of ages. In the final analysis, you can never even fully know this haphazard house that you are always so busy building.
If you stop your conscious building – that is, if you stop grabbing at things and emotions and thoughts in the attempt to make them a part of you – a great hush falls about the house. The rumbling disorder of new wings being hastily constructed just while others are being torn down quiets. This is terrifying in some ways, for suddenly you can hear the termites in the walls and the rats in the rafters. But this is also a great solace, for suddenly the Beloved’s whispers can be heard again. Cultivate your stillness, and the candles on your inner altar flare up into brilliance.
So long as we live, and beyond perhaps, each of us sets about building a haphazard house. We must let go of our fear that our houses will inevitably crumble, as they will. We must learn to stop shouting so that we can hear the divine symphony. Ultimately, we are learning the art of building beauty, compassion, and peace from the Beloved. My friends, every Child of God first blooms as an apprentice craftsman.