The Ellie Inn

 The Ellie Inn

We have all heard the expression: if these walls could talk, what would they say? Use your imagination and join me on this explorative journey. Stop for one moment. Stop scrolling. Stop looking at the reels. Give social media a break and listen to the walls speak. Listen to the echoes of times past. Hear the people whisper; hear the forever of history cry out.  

Have you ever walked into a place and thought about the history, the memories, the pain, the joy, and the life-changing words that may have been spoken there? I’m sure all of you have walked into a room and been met by a memory—the scent of it, the glance it brings, the smile it evokes, and even the hug that it offers. 

I recently had an encounter at The Ellie Inn, which is adjacent to my neighborhood. As I entered the front door of this magnificent place, I could hear the memories of humanity as well as the dreams and hopes of its visitors. I heard laughter and, of course, sadness. This was our first visit to this magical place. 

Let me give you a bit of the history of this exquisite place, as the owners describe it. Nestled in Fuquay-Varina, North Carolina, The Ellie Inn is a restored 1900s schoolhouse, perfect for intimate gatherings and special events.

The Ellie Inn is more than just a place to stay; it’s an experience where history and elegance come together. Every room retains unique details from its schoolhouse past while offering the modern amenities and conveniences needed for a comfortable stay. The charm of Ellie Nicholson’s legacy and the inviting atmosphere of this beautifully preserved home provide guests with a sense of timeless warmth and comfort.

Whether you’re celebrating life’s special moments, seeking a unique gathering place, or simply wanting a peaceful getaway, The Ellie Inn promises a one-of-a-kind experience. Here, the echoes of history enrich your memories, creating a backdrop for celebration, relaxation, and connection.

Right from the owner's description, I heard the echoes and voices of those who have been in these rooms. How wonderful is this journey, and how marvelous is this place that speaks so loudly from history. This is where this story was born: from the place of if these walls could talk.

I have scheduled a time this week to sit and listen to the walls at The Ellie Inn. The owners were so gracious to allow me to write about this unique encounter.  

The Ellie Inn is a writer’s haven; it has all the components a writer needs. How blessed I am to have this experience. I feel like there may have been other writers before me in this place; I will find out soon because I will listen as the walls talk. They will tell me. 

I’ve arrived at the inn. I have this excited and anxious feeling in my soul. It’s hard to explain. I’m hoping that this will subside as I start to write. It’s not in the way at all, but the uncertainty of this story may be the cause. I’m exploring new territory emotionally. This place is magnificent! 

I first settled into a cozy spot near the stairway, a little area I’ve come to think of as the parlor, and later moved into the main entertaining space to continue writing. I am now sitting in a chair that wraps around me with a pillow under my left arm. As I look up at these walls, I wonder what has been said in this room. The dreams that were shared here, the lessons learned here, the names spoken here, and the visions that were discussed here. These walls are some twenty feet tall, and a sophisticated brown, textured ceiling crowns them. Their beauty sings new songs now. The past is gone, but the stories that speak here remain. 

I’ve finally calmed into a state where my mind and fingers move together, with no thoughts getting in the way. It feels like a river, carrying the stories of The Ellie Inn. My mind keeps telling my fingers to slow down. The river doesn’t need to rush. These stories are numerous, and this is not the end of the project. Take your time, my friend. Enjoy the writing. This is a special story.  

There is exuberant laughter here; the echoes are so audible and melodic, and it’s emotional for me as I hear them. My experiences as a child and later as a young person consisted of more survival than happiness. These feelings come unexpectedly in this place. I see myself in the corner of the room, curled up on the floor, in a time when hope was gone, and only sadness and the shadow of death filled my soul. 

The corner is my safe place right now as I listen to these stories. 

The joy is flowing all around me; it’s a river of laughter swirling around the room, like a whirlpool of grace, mercy, peace, and harmony. It’s a virtual vortex of love. As I sit in the corner in my own alternate world, thinking no one sees me, arms start to reach out to me from this whirlpool of love. They start to sing in unison: “Holy, holy, holy, bring your pain to the throne of grace and mercy.” The room is spinning faster and faster, and there are more and more now reaching out to me. As I lift my head, I can see others in the corners of the room. We make eye contact, and our hands start to move away from our curled position. 

This vortex of grace and mercy is swirling at a life-giving pace now, and I can see the faces of these radiant angels reaching out to me. I can see what’s written on their dreams and their hopes. It’s so extraordinary. I want to reach out, but I’m just not sure if I can. I’ve been here so long. Will I be here forever? I ask myself. Will I take a step and reach out to humanity and trust again? I glance around the room and view the corner across from me. I witness him reaching out his arms, and see the whirlpool gently pulling him in as if they have rescued a soul from the depths of darkness. At this moment, rejoicing erupts in this vortex of love, mercy, and grace. I hear the angels cry in an overwhelming sound of love. Will I be next? I’m so resistant at this moment. 

I want to move to a different space in the inn, but I can’t right now. The others must be rescued in all corners of the room. As one leaves, another takes his place. This is where hope lives. I have to stay for now. I know there are other spaces in the inn that need this sea of love to rescue them. But here I am in this space, still in the corner, but more alert now, slightly reaching out with my fingertips. I am more interested in seeing others rescued than taking care of my own rescue. 

I remember names from my past who were rescued by this whirlpool of love, mercy, and grace: Chris (my brother), Kevin (my best friend), Tammy (an important part of my story), Lisa (my wife), my sister, my mom, Keith (my friend), my dad, Matt (the son of Kevin and Tammy), and Shirley (a beautiful friend). So many in this glorious sea of love have peace now. I’m reaching out just a bit more now, experiencing the peace that is spoken in this place; I’m not sure if I am ready just yet. 

As the whirlpool slows, I can clearly see the arms of those who are still reaching out to me, inviting me to the table of healing, the table of love, and the table that represents the beauty of humanity. They are singing, “Come now, get up and start this journey. It won’t be easy but it’s a start. Let the pain stay in the corner, let the suffering die, and let the deserving be where they belong. This is not your fault.” The voices are loud as we face this reality of decisions. Will you come? Will you reach out and be one who comes to this place and now helps those who will come behind you? There are so many. It’s up to you to reach out. Your name needs to be written here. Lift your hands and join us. 

All we have to do is come to the inn and sit, listen, and be ready for the rescue. Love, joy, peace, and harmony; it’s a new beginning for us all. 

I must admit this whirlpool of mercy and grace is breathtaking. Its white, flowing clouds spin so slowly that I can see the vapors disappear at my fingertips as I touch them. I’m in the midst of a magnificent pool of gold, rubies, and turquoise colors, and nothing is hindering me from joining this place. And yet I’m always drawn by them—the others that need this more than me.       

I’m still not sure if it’s my time. I’m still working on myself, and I am hopeful that one day I will reach the place where I can completely heal. For now, I am standing in the corner and content with watching those who are pulled into the whirlpool of love, mercy, and grace. It’s okay to be you and to acknowledge that healing is happening. As long as you are here, you will have hope. Don’t quit now; renewal is happening here.

The Ellie Inn is waiting, and these lovely walls will always exude love, grace, and mercy. There will always be a whirlpool of hope here. Come experience this magnificent place of history. Will you join us here?

www.sandwestedit.com 

Coloring

Coloring

To begin this story and end it would be so simple. This page could remain blank—empty and void of words. This story is about just that. I have no memory from age five and younger, and there are gaps that stretch until my teenage years. Even now, in my late adult life, I am drawn to those blank pages, wondering what once filled them.

These missing years are called the formative years of life. What happens during these years defines your later childhood life and determines how you will react and interact with humanity. As of late, words are bringing healing to my life. As many of you know, for more than four years now, therapy has been a big part of my life. I am discovering that building relationships and cracking the door on new emotional experiences is helping to color in these blank pages in my life. Still no memory, but it’s encouraging me to do more with my immediate family, my grandchildren, and those in my inner circle. I’m not venturing out any further than that. 

New relationships are a stretch for me; crowded rooms of people are complex, and places in general can be taxing to my mental well-being. I have grown over the past years to smile, make eye contact, and even offer a handshake and a hug now and then. 

Why now, at my age? Well-meaning people have told me to deal with it and blank it out. The advice I receive most often is to just give it to Jesus. The blank pages have been there for so many years, and I was okay with that until I realized that this was much bigger than me. These pages are much like the tapestry I wrote about, parallel somehow. I think for the most part, the tapestry is about putting pieces in the right place and adding to the project of life until it’s complete, finished or not. This story is defined by the lines drawn on blank pages and the colors that are placed in the lines. They give a clear picture of the time and the event, be it a new memory or one that is just outlined in my mind. 

As the unlocked memories become visible, the lines are slowly growing into a full-blown remembrance. Some are endearing, and some are haunting and difficult to deal with. They don’t come at one time; it’s extremely slow. To give you an idea of how slow, this story started more than two years ago. It’s been sitting on my homepage, open with the first paragraph somewhat outlined. I just picked it back up today. 

After I finish a story like the last one, Behind The Eyes, I enjoy a moment and sometimes weeks of freedom from the pain, the words, the energy, the mental toll, and the expression of my humanity. It’s peaceful here. Then I look, search, feel, and see the eyes of the hurting and the smiles of those in pain, and I must write. I must start to draw the lines of memories. Colors are in my hands, wanting to become life inside my mind. I must let it happen. Every story has a purpose, and sometimes I’m never sure who needs to read it. It’s mostly just for me.

As of late, I have been awakened to deep memories in my soul. I’m not even sure if they are real or not. Some are of tender hugs given by my mom as she said goodbye to my brother and me for the last time. When we were removed from our home, she dropped us off, kissed us on our foreheads, and said, “I love you.” Then she disappeared. These lines are now being colored in with beautiful colors of love. I know you are wondering how my mother could do this. You didn’t experience the environment of our home, the torture done to her, and even worse, the torture done to us. I’m not talking about abuse; I am talking about torture. I hope to color these pages in soon. I have outlines, and I am starting to see the real life we lived in the darkest of times and the battles we faced. These lines are beginning to connect, and to be honest, I’m not sure if I want to see these memories. 

For the sake of those who are coming behind me, I must color these lines in, beautiful or dark; they must be forever written. The beautiful seems the easiest to color in. The lines that outline the dark are too bold, and the colors are even darker. 

For the sake of triggering those who may not need to know what’s in the bold lines, don’t worry, I will handle this with care, and you will understand what I’m saying. It’s healing that brings colors to these lines. We need to color in the good memories and the bad ones to bring closure. 

I learned something recently when we took our grandchildren out to eat. The kids’ menu came with coloring pages, and as they began to fill in the outlines, we joined them. To be honest, I was not interested in this activity, but they seemed to be excited about completing this picture. I saw the outline and already knew the outcome, but they wanted to color, so we did. As we colored together, I realized something: an outline alone is just that—an empty framework, waiting to be filled. It’s the color that gives it life, meaning, and joy. Without it, the picture, and perhaps the memory, feels incomplete. 

No matter the energy, no matter the lines, or the boldness of the lines, we need to color in the picture. It’s what brings the truth into existence. This is living water to our souls. Let the thirsty come. Let those who need to color come. Let those who want to color come; the blessing is in the coloring itself. Every stroke brings life to the bold lines and brings peace and healing to us who need to complete a picture—a memory that needs to escape the mind, cherished or dark. The awesome wonder of our mind was never meant to remain in black and white lines. So, color! It’s okay to color. You have time!  

www.sandwestedit.com 

Behind The Eyes

 

Behind The Eyes

Some ideas are expressed more clearly in written form than they are orally. But some words are better left unsaid and unwritten. 

There are times when thoughts should be left deep in the silence of our minds rather than spoken out loud. We’ve all experienced moments when, as soon as the words left our mouths, we wished we could take them back. 

Then there are times when the ideas in our minds remain unspoken, and they could have saved a life, made a difference, repaired a relationship, or mended a heart. This is the tragedy of silence. When should we speak in a crowded world of words? When should we surrender to the spoken word? 

Sometimes I feel like I am the only person on earth who has a consistent conversation with my subconscious and who battles with unspoken words. I wake up at three a.m. and listen to the words deep in my soul, having a complete conversation back and forth. I know you may think that I’m crazy, and to some degree, I will not argue that point. 

I have surrendered to knowing my true self, and if that means having an internal dialogue that is not intended for anyone but me, then so be it. All of my stories are written in the silence of my mind before any typing begins. Even as I write now, I am deciding what to write down and what to leave out. It’s an active conversation going on between me and my hands. 

The words that are deep in my mind may never make it to the pages and to the ears that may or may not need to hear or read those words. It’s the life I live, and I am happy in it. 

This story may sound like it’s about my abusers, but it's not. The truth is simple: It’s not you, it’s me. These are my words alone, not yours. I don’t replay your glances, your tone, your abuse, your cruelty, or even your words. If you were alive, I’m not sure if I would share the thoughts that reside so deeply within my soul. 

The darkness, pain, suffering, and unrelenting battle within my soul are something I long to escape. No, you will never hear the words. Even now, long after you are gone, the effects of your words, your torture, and your evil presence remain visible in me. I will never repeat the words you spoke to me; I will never speak of the pain you have caused me.

I will write them as they are life to me; they break the strongholds that have bound me for many years. These words, while simple in nature, are powerful, never said but written. These words are life! 

The existential words that I hear may only be for me. The conversations give purpose, reason, and direction. Even now, the struggle to write the exact words is a battle. As you have already seen in this story alone, some words made it to the page that may not have ever made it out of the darkness of my mind. They were shouting to get out, so I let them out. It’s my choice in the end. There are more, and maybe one day I will be able to express them. 

This story was born from the deep, unspoken conversations in my mind. When those thoughts are finally spoken in confidence or typed out, they become a part of my healing journey. At my age, I continually ask myself what needs to be healed and why I even need to type these stories out. Yet I know that each word and each back-and-forth conversation in my mind brings another day of living, another day of peace, and another day of loving. There was a time when I didn’t understand how to love myself or accept love from others_. This is an ongoing struggle for me. Some will get this and some will not, and that’s okay. Each sentence adds minutes to my life; every story adds months to my life; and every book brings years to me. 

My writing is not about me and my journey. I want others to see these conversations and know it’s okay to have your own contemplations in your mind. You will make it. Don’t quit. 

I’ve left this story alone for weeks now, buried deep in my soul, not sure of the direction or even the message that was evolving. Along the way, I’ve lost so many friends to these silent battles when they became consumed by the lies they told themselves, so I want to be cautious as I bring this to a close. 

The unwritten and unspoken conversations behind closed eyelids have to happen; it’s okay. Give yourself grace to speak freely and the strength to voice the unspoken and feel the unwanted. It’s difficult, but it’s a beautiful way to reconnect with your inner self and nurture your mental and emotional well-being. This grace you give yourself leads to healing and enriches your life in so many ways. These words, spoken or unspoken, will bring you peace and add years to your life. I would be remiss if I didn’t advise you: seek professional help if you need it. It’s okay. 

You all know I am extremely transparent about my therapy. Not that long ago, the voices became so loud and destructive that I didn’t think I would make it. I was so close that looking back now it still makes me tremble and shakes me to my core. That’s why I’m being vulnerable right now so that you might take a different course. Don’t quit! This world needs you, and your purpose is real. You can make a difference with your words, spoken or unspoken. A smile, a hug, a glance, or a comment can change the course of someone’s life. 

You never know what the conversation is or will be until you speak from behind your eyes. Spoken or not spoken. It’s silence that brings the end. 

www.sandwestedit.com 

The Lens

 The Lens 

So many words are spoken today, and so much background noise fills the air, creating confusion. Future generations will not stand a chance unless we begin to speak truth through the lens of wisdom, the lens of experience, the lens of reality, and above all, through the lens of love and truth. 

The older I get, the more clearly my lens focuses on what truly matters—the real meaning of life—and the powerful truth that it’s never too late to shape humanity through words.

We have to help the next generation turn away from their addiction to knowledge, their addiction to social platforms, and their addiction to fame. Our minds were never meant to absorb so much information, and this has caused our lenses to become blurred far too early in life. 

We may not bring anything new to the table, but what we do have is a more focused lens—sharpened by years, pain, and perspective—unlike the generations coming behind us. We now compete with machines that have fostered a deep addiction to information, shaping the lenses of humanity across all ages. Just look around the next time you are out and see humanity with their heads down and their eyes locked on their machines. 

The lens will tell the real story. A focused lens reveals the truth, but if it’s distorted, it brings lies into reality. I have looked through the lens as a twenty-year-old, as a thirty-year-old, as a forty-year-old, as a fifty-year-old, and now as a sixty-year-old. I now see more clearly the traumas that have shaped me. I have accepted the fact that I was not the cause but a casualty of a lens that was so blurred and full of evil. As I walked into the path of that evil lens, nothing but torture took place. I tried my best to stay out of sight. 

Those traumas have given me a unique vision, a hard-earned clarity that helps me fight my battles one at a time—mostly with myself, and sometimes with those around me. Some never realize they are in the focus of my lens. They are just stray casualties of the ever-changing lens and the unwanted focus that was not meant for them. They take it personally, but it’s not that way at all. The fact of the matter is that what comes into the view of the lens has a purpose, and that purpose is to bring a clear vision to our humanity, our life, our purpose, and our existential being. 

I have come to one conclusion about this story. It is much more complex than just a short one-liner. With that said, I will focus on what’s ahead. 

It’s been weeks now, and I’m still struggling with the direction. The front end of this story has changed so many times. I believe it’s because when we sit back and take time to bring clarity into focus, the lens brings something that is so beautiful that we can say, That’s it!

That’s what’s different about my twenty-year-old lens, my thirty-year-old lens, and even my forty-year-old lens. These years were about taking everything in and processing what came into focus. My formative years were so blurry. I lived in survival mode, where there was no time to focus on anything else. 

I know that’s not the case for all of humanity. I often wonder what it’s like to be looking through a twenty-year-old lens right now; it must be terrifying. Even the thirty and forty-year-old lens must carry deep concern for what’s to come. 

But a focused lens brings hope and a calm reality. We all come from uniquely shaped lenses, and that’s what makes this world so beautiful and diverse. If we all shared the same focus and the same lens in this life, we would not need Him. That’s the beauty of the lens; it builds us, layer by layer, shaping us through the years. 

Now, my fifty-year-old lens was the start of a revolution inside of my soul. I’m not sure if that’s true for all lenses that develop in our humanity, but for me, it sparked a new clarity. To be honest, the late fifties brought an awakening of sorts that led me into a new era. I realized that I had spent so many years running from the very clarity that I was searching for. I kept the focus I desired out of reach because of fear. I was afraid of what would come into view, afraid of what clarity might bring. I fought hard. And now, I am in my sixty-year-old lens. 

I am still fighting for clarity. I want to see, but I am still fearful of this past that seems to emerge with new memories and destruction. Yet I now have tools—handed to me by the grace of beautiful people who were placed in my life.

Despite all the scratches, rough spots, and blurred areas on my lens, there is hope. The scratches are reminders of past losses and past victories—each one now clearer in hindsight. The rough patches reflect the mountains I have climbed and the roads I have traveled. The blurred spots? Maybe they’re just meant to stay there for now. Maybe that’s grace, too.

No matter where you are in your lens of life, accept the scratches, the rough patches, and even the blur. These are all part of the journey. Look at what’s in focus now. Work on that. That’s where you are right now. That’s what matters.

Clarity will come with time. Don’t rush toward it so quickly that you miss the understanding meant for the moment. True clarity will never come from the machines designed to overwhelm our minds. It comes through genuine connection—one-on-one—and through alignment with our purpose in life. 

Our relational response to one another is what brings clarity and vision to our purpose in life. 

So, let’s continue to polish our lenses—the lens of compassion, attention, purpose, and love. 

www.sandwestedit.com