I enter a house with a lot of light. Maybe it has to do with the dome upstairs, or the large windows, or the doors that are often open. Or with the air that freely flows through the house. Or maybe it's the fact that so many people come to this house.
The house accepts them, absorbs them, envelops them. It supports them, feeds them, and warms them. They spread around the house, finding their places here. They put their ears to the walls, listening to the stories of this house. Between the walls, they look for the shadows of those who built it. They find old books and diaries. People sleep well here. The house carries them like a pregnant woman.
I go down to the very bottom of the house, pass a long staircase, walk through the labyrinths of the cellars, and reach the stone that is located the deepest. The stone on which the house rests, to which everything converges, with which everything is woven. The stone from which this house begins, and the healing stone, the touch of which gives recovery. A powerful stone that heals the people who come and thus heals the whole country, making it powerful and strong, renewing it, nourishing it, and strengthening it.
Being in this house, I find such a stone in myself, that golden grain inside me, from which everything begins and to which it converges. I will keep it protected.