Nerve Endings Firing Away

The sun streams right into your bedroom scattering the misty morning air. As you shake off your slumber grudgingly, your eyes take you right towards the mountains backlit by a glorious sun. The lethargy vanishes almost instantly; you are torn between running wildly over the water and snuggling back in your covers, enjoying the sunrise. As you look around, the visions of the natural world remain unobstructed; it is almost like waking up with nature.

Who wouldn’t want to wake up to such heavenly mornings? Actually some people, whom I am extremely envious of, do. The house is nestled high up on the mountains overlooking a serene lake. The house remains tantalizingly poised over the water edge, almost tipping over. The house is entirely shrouded in glass; almost diffusing with the surroundings leaving nothing to imagination to the prying eyes of the surrounding wilderness. There is no privacy, of course but then also there is no one around for miles. Civilization seems light years away. The house in itself does not appear to be a glaring eyesore but blends seamlessly with the roughly hewn granite. Beavers and raccoons might just mistake it as another rock on their way to the lake. Stretching horizontally, the house hugs the earth like a dear child not rising beyond the neighboring green friends.

You almost miss it as your eye follows the dirt road leading up to the hidden driveway. You arrive silently and appear overawed by the greenery. The living space is sparsely furnished; nothing apart from earth colors adorn the cozy upholstery. The space flows freely taking you from one area of the house to another without definite functions. The entire valley is spread out before your eyes and you drink in the azure blue sky above, the crystal clear water in the lake nearby and the gleaming mountains in the distance. The glass walls do not waste a single inch of the view. The cool breeze from the lake travels through the trees, which have obligingly parted to reveal the wonders beyond. As you walk around, you hardly realize you are standing in the verandah when moments ago, you were admiring the view from the living room. The gradual transition has blurred the boundaries of inside and outside. The hovering cantilever over the water lends a godlike feeling. You could swear you have walked on water.

You reluctantly look back at the house and instead see a shimmering reflection of the view you just tore your eyes from, broken intermittently by the barely-visible support system. As you walk back, the contours of the land take you slowly upwards to the sleeping quarters, where the view is equally breathtaking. It is obvious that the existence of the house depends on the view it offers, as if projecting you outwards instead of sheltering us inwards. The sleeping quarters are just enough to fulfill their basic function, prompting you to return to the heart of the house like a long-lost sailor at sea. Communion, not isolation is the spirit of the house.

It is a place where you forget worries of the world you left behind. It is the place that drains you of every negative thought. It is the place where friendships are forged and families come closer. It is the place where you agree to a temporary peace with nature and settle in its comforting arms.

It is the place I would like to call home. Someday.

[thanks to FLW's Falling Water in PA, Philip Johnson's Glass House in CT, and Mies van de Rohe's Farnsworth House in IL for letting me believe that this is possible]