There isn’t a door, because there isn’t one needed. The room is large and circular and spacious, with a high ceiling that I’m never quite aware of. The walls are a light periwinkle, and massive round windows allow sunlight to illuminate the room. The floor is made of dirt and soft Irish moss, with various slate rocks — warm to the touch of a bare foot — leading meandering paths through the curious chamber.
A venerable oak tree sprawls outward from the middle of the room, its branches brushing the ground, and ceder and dogwood trees offer shade throughout the room. Pockets of forget-me-nots speckle the mossy ground. Near the oak tree stands a bookshelf, and next to it, a small daybed covered with a white quilt and large goose-down pillows.
In this room, it’s always mid-spring. The trees always have leaves, the sunlight isn’t too warm, and there are no bugs. Dirt doesn’t get caught between my toes, and it always smells like it’s about to rain. Day turns to night, but the sky is alight with unfathomable amounts of stars.
In this room, I am never bored. In this room, I can read for as long as I like, and stare at the stars until dawn. In this room, I am never lonely. In this room, I can muse and ponder and unravel as many of the universe’s mysteries as I like. In this room, there are no worries or concerns. In this room, only select people and creatures can accompany me, because this is my heart, and my heart is a place for peace and love and acceptance.
What does your heart’s room look like?