The House That Waited for Me (A Love Letter to Chinsegut Hill)

There is, nestled high upon a Florida hill wrapped in whispering oaks and ancestral breeze, a manor house unlike any other. Her name is Chinsegut, which means, so hauntingly and perfectly, “the spirit of things lost and regained.” A name not chosen but divined.
And oh, how I have loved her.

Not from a distance — but deeply, soulfully, with a reverence that reaches beyond time. For she (Chinsegut Hill) is not simply a house. She is a keeper of memory, a grandmother of land and lore, a sleeping queen beneath a canopy of stars. Fate stitched us together long ago — her bricks and beams bind themselves to the very beating of my heart.

But for years, I watched from the hedgerows, from the edges of the path, from just beyond the iron gate.

She has belonged to many — in deed, perhaps, but never in devotion.

Like a widow in waiting, she has stood, not crumbling but quietly forgotten, passed from contract to contract like a fine teacup no one dares to use. Transactional caretakers have come and gone, seeking only her prestige and not her poetry. And yet, she remains — proud, weathered, wistful — awaiting someone who does not wish to possess her but to belong to her.

And I?

I have come not with claims but with a cup in hand, full of love, rain, and restoration. My energy is not that of a conqueror but a keeper. Not a master but a mermaid-hearted mender of forgotten things.

I do not seek to own Chinsegut.

I seek to sanctify her.

To sweep her floors with prayer, to fill her windows with light, to crown her gardens with laughter and lemon balm.

But between us lies a gate still closed.
Not of stone or chain, but of old power—power misused or misunderstood. There are those who see her (Chinsegut Hill) still as a relic, a transaction, a property to leverage, not a legacy to live within. I have cast off the weary old notion that I must toil through struggle, parade my worth like a show pony, or linger in limbo awaiting permission — for I know now that I am already worthy, and the victory is not wrestled but remembered.

No more.

I believe — deeply, delightedly — that love is a valid title deed and that sacred places know the sound of their true steward’s voice.
So I speak now, in this blog, in this prayer-drenched letter, to anyone who listens:
If thou hold any key,
If thou know the way through parchment or policy,
If thy heart feels the truth of this tale —
Hear me.

For I am not building a brand or chasing glory. I am weaving a legacy of women and children and sacred restoration—of art, tea, storybooks, and spiritual sanctuary—of heirloom roses and open gates, of slow living and shared bread.

I am the keeper of a dream. And Chinsegut is the house that dreamed it first. Let her be lost no longer. Let her be regained — in light, in laughter, in the loving arms of one who remembers what others have forgotten. And if this letter finds its way to the heart that matters most…

Then so it shall be.