What is bringing your life meaning right now?

My writing. Just this morning I wrote an essay about my favorite house. It was a house I lived in as a foster child. It was a single story four bedroom house, with a wide front porch. The short driveway ended at the side of the house under a grape arbor, wide and shady, laden with fruit. The house was unlike any home I’ve ever lived in, it was not a cheap cardboard characature of it’s neighbors, like so many houses in suburbia are. This house was different, unique, enchanting. It had hard wood floors and large windows and wood fire place in the front room, flanked by glass covered built-in book shelves. The back yard however, was where the magic happened. It was a full acre of fruit trees. In Los Angeles County, no less! There were persimmon, plum, peach and apricot trees. It was a paradise of hidding places and safe spots. The trees were groomed to be low to the ground and their branches created little rooms beneath them, where a child could lay in the grass, read a book and eat the half-ripe fruit. The house also had something I’d never seen before, a cellar. With an outside entrance you would step down concrete steps to the dirt floor of the cellar. It’s walls were poured cement and were lined with wooden shelves. What a wonderful place to play store! I raced the length of that lovely yard on my imaginary horses, my long hair whipping out behind me like a mane in the wind. My heart took flight also during those times and i felt joy, ever so briefly. It was a wonderful house, a warm and welcoming house, filled with hateful lonely people…and I loved it’s wooden beams and creaking floors. I lived there 6 wks.