When the Locks Move Outside.

Author’s Opening Note

Here is something they do not print on postcards or tuck between pictures of powdered sugar and brass bands. New Orleans has more above ground cemeteries than almost anywhere else in this country not because we are fascinated with death but because the land refuses to cooperate with secrecy. The water table sits too close to the surface. You try to bury something deep and it floats back up like it has something left to say. Coffins rise. Secrets resurface. What you thought was handled taps you on the shoulder and asks if you are really finished.

I have always believed that fact says more about the soul than it does about the soil.

This city teaches you early that you cannot hide pain and expect it to behave. You cannot shove truth underground and call it healed. You cannot rearrange reality and think it will stay where you put it. New Orleans does not do denial quietly. This place hums. It remembers. History leaks through the cracks in the pavement and into your spirit whether you ask for it or not.

The same is true of us.

You cannot lock fear away and assume it will stay behind the door. You cannot move your inner security system around without consequences. You cannot pretend you are fine when something sacred has been disturbed and expect your spirit not to notice.

I am writing this because a dream shook me awake in the same way this city does after a heavy rain. It unsettled me. It made me laugh a little out of disbelief. It irritated me. It hushed me. And at one point it had me sitting on the edge of my bed staring into the dark like someone had just moved furniture in my inner house without asking.

This is not a sermon. This is not a confession booth. This is a long front porch conversation with The Creator listening nearby pretending not to hear. There is humor here because sometimes the only thing you can do when life rearranges your living room is laugh and say well I guess the couch lives there now. There is sarcasm because pain does not always deserve polite language. There is tenderness because winter homelessness is not poetic when you are the one without a coat.

If you feel like something has shifted in you lately. If blessings seem to arrive with noise following behind them. If you have ever wondered whether you were protected or just stubborn enough to keep going. This is for you.

Pull up a chair. Watch your step. Some things float back up around here.

When the Locks Move Outside.

A New Orleans Testament on Shelter Spirit and Staying Put When the Cold Comes.

In the dream I went home the way you always do when you believe you are safe. No drama. No warning signs. Just muscle memory and trust. But the moment I stepped inside something felt off in that quiet way where your body notices before your mind catches up. The air felt rearranged. Not destroyed. Not dirty. Just touched. And that might be worse.

Someone had been inside my home.

Not the loud breaking glass kind of invasion. The personal kind. The kind where things are moved just enough to let you know somebody had opinions about where your life should sit. My security system the thing meant to guard the inside had been removed and installed outside like it was protecting the wrong side of the door. I remember standing there thinking who does that and why does this feel insulting and ridiculous at the same time.

I was angry. I was uneasy. I felt exposed in a way that did not show on my face. And instead of fighting or fixing it I left. I chose distance. I chose the cold. I chose not to sleep in my own bed because something in me said home does not feel like home right now.

That is how I ended up homeless in winter inside my own dream. No shelter. No certainty. Just breath turning white in the air and the strange realization that you can feel abandoned even when the house still exists.

Dreams do not speak politely. They speak honestly.

Home is not just walls and locks. Home is where your spirit loosens its shoulders. Home is where your thoughts take off their shoes. When something intrudes on that space even symbolically you feel it everywhere. Joy flinches. Creativity gets quieter. Belonging starts packing a bag.

What struck me most was not the break in. It was the relocation of protection. That part felt personal. Like somewhere along the way I had started guarding the perimeter and neglecting the core. Like I had become so busy watching what came at me that I forgot to tend to what lived within me.

New Orleans understands this lesson instinctively. We build high because the ground tells the truth. We raise houses because denial does not work here. Water will remind you every time. This city says adapt or get soaked.

My dream said the same thing.

Every time something good has entered my life I have noticed how noise follows it. Not celebration noise. That would be welcome. I mean the other kind. The kind that questions your worth. The kind that brings sideways comments and spiritual static. The kind of people who show up right when the light turns on acting like they were always there.

That pattern showed up in the dream too. Blessing followed by disturbance. Growth followed by commentary. Elevation followed by someone trying to rearrange my furniture.

And I am tired of pretending that does not affect me.

Words are not harmless. Energy is not imaginary. When people speak from their wounds they bleed on your calling. When people feel threatened by purpose they reach for discredit before they reach for understanding. That is not mysticism. That is human behavior wearing bad manners.

I am a writer. I know that the same way I know the smell of rain on hot concrete. Writing is not a pastime for me. It is how my spirit exhales. It is how I stay sane in a loud world. I believe it is a calling because I did not choose it casually. It chose me insistently.

And calling attracts resistance the same way music attracts neighbors who complain about the volume.

The dream was not telling me I was weak. It was showing me I was open. Sensitive. Perceptive. Tuned in. Those traits make good writers and easy targets. They also require boundaries that do not feel like walls but like wisdom.

Leaving the house in the dream was not cowardice. It was survival. But survival is not the same as thriving. Winter teaches you that quickly. You can endure cold for a while but eventually you need shelter. Eventually you have to decide whether you will reclaim your space or keep wandering wrapped tightly around your purpose.

My grandmother used to say something that sounded simple until life tested it. She said they plan we plan and The Creator plans and The Creator is the best of planners. She said it while stirring pots and folding clothes like it was just another law of nature. Gravity pulls. Water rises. Creation knows what it is doing.

That wisdom showed up in the dream even if she did not. Because even in the cold I was still breathing. Even outside the house I was still alive. Even exposed I was not abandoned.

That is the part people miss. Protection does not always look like prevention. Sometimes it looks like endurance. Sometimes it looks like you still holding a pen when everything else feels shuffled.

New Orleans has a way of teaching you that protection is not silence. It is rhythm. It is knowing when to open the door and when to say baby not today. It is learning the difference between hospitality and self neglect. We will feed you. We will laugh with you. But we are watching where you put your hands.

The dream forced me to admit something I had been avoiding. Somewhere along the way I started letting people walk through my inner rooms without knocking just because they smiled on the way in. I handed out access like Lagniappe Take a little extra. Take a little more. Until I was standing outside in the cold wondering how generosity turned into exposure.

I have noticed that people with quiet callings explain themselves too much. We soften our no until it sounds like maybe. We share dreams before they finish cooking. Then we act surprised when somebody tastes it too early and says it needs salt.

This city knows better.

There is a reason gumbo takes its time. There is a reason you do not rush a roux. Some things burn if you rush them. Some things need patience a low flame and trust that the pot knows what it is doing.

The Creator works like that too.

In the dream when I left my house I did not pack carefully. No suitcase. No plan. Just instinct. That still makes me smile because it is exactly how I respond when my spirit feels crowded. I pull back. I go quiet. I disappear. I tell myself I am fine when really I am just tired of explaining my depth to people wading ankle deep.

Winter homelessness is not only about temperature. It is about loneliness. It is about the ache of not having a place where your guard can drop. And that is what the dream was revealing. I had confused isolation with protection. I had mistaken withdrawal for wisdom.

There is a difference.

Years ago I sat on a stoop in the Treme listening to an old man tell a story nobody asked for and everybody needed. He spoke about a woman the neighborhood called Miss Corinne who lived near the bayou where the city thins and the land remembers older names.

They said Miss Corinne could sense trouble before it arrived. Not loud trouble. The quiet kind that smiles. People asked her how she knew when to lock doors and when to leave them open. She laughed and said the river tells you if you shut up long enough to listen.

When storms came Miss Corinne did not board windows first. She moved what mattered inside. She covered mirrors. Lifted photographs. Shifted chairs away from where water would rise. She said the house can get wet but memories cannot drown.

One year the water came fast and mean. Walls cracked. Roofs sighed. When folks returned her place was battered but standing. Furniture soaked but present. Photos dry. Mirrors intact.

When they asked her how she knew what to protect she said I do not protect the house. I protect the story living in it.

That folklore stayed with me because it feels like instruction disguised as gossip.

My dream was not about losing shelter. It was about misplacing priorities. Guarding appearances while neglecting essence. Watching reactions instead of nurturing intention.

Every time something good happens the frequency changes. Compliments arrive with conditions. Support comes with strings. It would be easy to call that attack. But I am learning to call it a signal.

Growth makes noise. Blessings rattle old arrangements. When light enters a room dust becomes visible. That does not make light the problem.

The Creator allows friction without allowing destruction. I know that because even when unsettled I am still here. Still writing. Still listening. Still caring enough to ache.

My grandmother understood this. She said do not argue with a storm. Secure what matters and let it pass. Her faith was practical. Pray. Work. Rest. Repeat. When plans collapsed she shrugged and said looks like The Creator had a better idea.

That humility is armor.

I am not holy. I am not flawless. I get tired. I get irritated. I want to snap sometimes. I want to vanish sometimes. But I cannot stop writing. That is how I know the womb of Creation has not released me.

This city survives by remembering who it is. Brass bands after funerals. Laughter in grief. Food seasoned with memory and defiance. New Orleans does not deny the flood. It dances afterward.

I am learning to do the same.

If something has shifted in you lately. If your inner locks feel misplaced. If winter feels closer than it should. Hear this. You are not being punished. You are being refined. You are not targeted because you are weak. You are challenged because you are valuable.

I am choosing to stay in my house now. To rearrange my own furniture. To reinstall protection where it belongs. Inside. Near the heart. Near the work. Near the quiet place where The Creator speaks softly.

Winter passes. It always does. But it teaches you who you are when comfort thins. It shows you what you reach for when warmth is scarce.

I reached for faith. I reached for memory. I reached for my grandmother’s voice reminding me that plans change but the Planner does not miss.

And I reached for my pen.

What is meant to come through me cannot be erased. It can only be delayed. And delay does not win if you keep showing up .

If you are reading this and something keeps pulling you forward even when you are tired that is not foolishness. That is alignment. That is assurance.

Stay with yourself. Stay with your calling. Stay warm where it matters.

The house is still yours.

Author’s Closing Words

If these words steadied you if they warmed you if they felt like a hand on your back saying keep going I ask you to help me keep this work alive. Please share this reflection by any positive means that feels right to you. Pass it along. Read it aloud. Send it to someone standing in their own winter.

And if you are able please consider donating to support the writer and the blog. Writing like this costs time energy and heart and your support helps me continue answering the call placed on my life.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for believing. Thank you for staying.

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