Breathing House
A Haptic Narrative
The University of Texas at Austin / Fall 2024
Professor: Dason Whitesett
I awoke to the sound of the ocean: rhythmic and soothing, a steady cadence against the backdrop of silence. Day two of my retreat, and already, time was slipping through my fingers. My eyes opened to a dim room, the soft morning light gleaning gently through the clerestory windows set high on either side of me. These small apertures invite in a limited amount of light and air, generating a mugginess that reminds me I am in Florida. Over the months before my arrival, these windows opened frequently to trap the steady winter coolness of the ocean breezes, and their work was done well before I even arrived. I valued their role in maintaining my comfort in the rest of the home, but the absence of the ocean and the dampness of the mornings always left me slightly restless, and abnormally eager to get out of bed.
The walls and the floor of the home, cool to the touch, were concrete. Solid. Grounding. A perfect counterpoint to the airy warmth that would creep in during the day. I left slippers by the bed for protection, although I always allowed my feet to feel the cool reassurance of the floor beneath me before putting them on. The bedroom was a cocoon, protective and austere. It was peaceful but without a view, which was its own kind of punishment. I avoided spending too much time here, favoring the living area where the walls gave way to windows and the windows gave way to the world.
In the living, dining, and kitchen space, the house breathed. The wide-open panes drew in the ocean breeze, carrying with it salt and whispers of distant waves. The temperature was different here: warmer than the bedroom, but dry, and alive. This was where I lived during my week away, where the hum of the outside world mingled with the stillness I sought. I could feel the air move across my skin, sometimes playful and light, other times insistent. It was a house that didn’t just sit; it danced with the wind; it conversed with the sun.
By midday, the house began to show its warmth. The concrete, so cool in the morning, started to radiate the day’s heat back at me, like a quiet conversation between earth and sun. I didn’t mind. It was a slow kind of heat, one that rose gently, reminding me of the passage of time in a way clocks never could. The living space grew warmer, the breeze less bracing. Yet it was here, in this heat and breeze and salt-tanged air, that I felt most at peace.
Each night, the world cooled, and so did the house. The walls gave back their stored heat to the night, settling into a kind of equilibrium by the time I returned to bed. I would lie there, listening to the ocean, the air brushing past me from the open door to the living space, and feel both the day and the temperature ease away.
By day five, the house was speaking more loudly. The mornings were no longer crisp but temperate, the afternoons muggy and a shade closer to hot. I’d find myself peeling my back from the living room chair, fanning myself with a magazine that had gone unread. I joked to myself that the house was conspiring to end my retreat. “You’ve had your time,” it seemed to say, “Now go.”
It’s a ritual, this week away. I come here every year, letting the house and the ocean reset me. Each year, the house decides when it’s time to leave, its temperature a subtle nudge back to reality. This year, it was the sixth morning. I woke up and felt the warm farewell. The concrete beneath my feet was less than cool; the air in the bedroom was still, carrying the memory of yesterday’s heat.
I lingered in the living space for as long as I could that final day, sitting by the wide-open windows, letting the breeze—still present, still welcome—wrap around me. It wasn’t just a house. It was a partner in my retreat, a living entity that marked my time and shared my solitude. And as I packed up and closed the door behind me, I felt its heat on my back, a farewell until next year.