as the Norwegians would say when asked “How are you?” Why didn’t I think of that?!
My sister did respond to the video I texted her. After her brief inquiry of the band Tool during her recent visit, and knowing she likely wouldn’t listen to a heavy metal song, I texted her an acoustic video cover of one of my favorite Tool songs, Right In Two. Her response was, “not my cup of tea.” That reply felt all warm and wonderful to me. And do you know why? Because it was entirely different than any way my siblings have ever responded to me. Entirely different.
It was generous. It indicated maturity in our relationship. Because it was not punitive; it was not corrective. It was not judgmental. It was not hostile. For the first time I remember in my lifetime it was about her, not what I was getting wrong. Which meant it implied respect. We can be different. We can have different likes and preferences and even values – and we can still love one another. Her response was spacious.
I’m not kidding when I tell you what a remarkable change this seemingly small, insignificant shift means. It shows me that light years of growth have occurred…somehow. That only took about sixty years too long for my liking. Maybe it just means they have given up trying to save me. Whatever it means, I’ll take it.
To say that I have been the black sheep of the family all my life would be a gross understatement. Acceptance was never going to happen, let alone any meaningful connection or companionship. I have spent a lifetime being jealous of women with close sisters. I’ve long been grieving the loss of what would never be.
And it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying on my part, albeit coming at it from my needy, codependent campaign for their acceptance. Once the lightbulb finally went on there and I stopped trying to prove my worth everything changed. See how that works? We choose freedom, health, self-acceptance, self-love. And then we get the acknowledgment. We were enough all along.
“Repugnant is a creature who would squander the ability to lift an eye to heaven, conscious of his fleeting time here…” – Tool
This past week some of my family came to visit. My younger sister and her son. His girlfriend came along to help with the ten hour drive north from Cincinnati. I was glad to meet her, and I was excited to see them. I hadn’t seen her in the two years since my brother’s memorial service. My nephew had brought his three young girls up to visit us last summer. They were “t’weens” then, so who knows when I might see them again. Teenagers have their own busy agendas and are probably less likely to indulge the boring elderly aunt.
This visit had a different purpose, actually. They drove a rented truck up to deliver the granite headstones my sister had made for my parent’s and my brother’s gravesites. Cemeteries are governed by strict laws now that require professional installation and maintenance. They came to oversee that.
We all went out to eat near my home. My son wore his Tool sweatshirt, the one that features the colorful Alex Grey illustration featured on the Lateralus album. I bought him that sweatshirt for Christmas a few years ago, so he put it on without thinking about it – which immediately raised questions. And so began a short conversation about the band Tool.
My son introduced me to Tool years ago. Since my days at the Grande Ballroom in Detroit I have been a heavy metal fan, thank you Black Sabbath. I took my son and friends to their first rock concert as teens. We went to see Metallica. It was great, even if I was way older than the rest of the audience. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for my son and how he enriches my life every day in a million ways. I’m trying to pay attention, because WHO GETS TO BE THIS BLESSED?!
If I’m honest I had mixed feelings about seeing my sister. I love her dearly. We have little in common. Our values are so different. We have a third sister in this area; she and I have no contact. I knew that the two of them were going to meet also. Family, at least mine, is always a mixed bag of emotions. You never know how it’s going to go.
However, I do not have mixed feelings about Tool. I am a die-hard fan for life. I have referred to them as the Mozarts of their generation. Their music is a complex, brilliant treatise on the human condition. As usual…artists are the keepers of the truth, after all. The alchemists who turn our fodder into gold. And now I am also a fan of Band of Echoes. How is this song the perfect metaphor for my family relationships…how is my heart to survive these divisions?
But as it turned out we had a wonderful visit with my family. Politics and religion never entered into the conversation. We are aging. Our younger brother died of a heart attack two years ago. Our time here is fleeting. My sister and I both know that every visit is a privilege and could certainly be our last. We also know that our sons – our beautiful genius sons, will love each other long after we are gone. “Good Lord willin’ and the crick don’t rise,” as my southern grandmother Mimi would have said.
So as a continuance of our conversation I searched for an acoustic version of a favorite Tool song to share with my sister. I knew she wouldn’t listen to the heavy metal original. We will see how this goes…
It’s been decades since the dream. I remember it as if it were last night. I was awake, and knew I was “away,” not in my body. Do you call that lucid dreaming? When you know you are asleep in your bed and also awake in this new place? I can’t pretend to understand it when it happens.
But there I was on a hillside looking over a pond, huge old barn on the opposite hill, old white farmhouse behind me. There were a group of us strangers. Somewhere in the Eastern U.S. we had gathered for a writer’s workshop. So early in the morning, and crisply cool this fall day. My head hurt and I was craving coffee.
Patiently we waited our turn to be ferried across the pond in one of two rowboats being piloted by a couple of young men. Students at the nearby college perhaps. The day’s activities would take place in the barn. I was hoping I’d dressed warm enough. Finally, it was just myself and a slightly older woman standing to my left. We approached the boat as it pulled alongside the small platform. Once seated she introduced herself, offering a handshake. “May Sarton.”
As the day went on I would come to find that she was one of the two instructors of the workshop. At some point in time I had the thought, “don’t forget her name when you wake up.” And so without coming fully awake, I reached over to my nightstand and clumsily scribbled m A Y s a R to N and went right back into the dream.
I didn’t remember the dream at all in the morning until I saw the paper. I could barely read what I’d jotted down in the dark. Years before the internet or cell phones, I would have to go the library to research and try to find out if she were actually a real person. Did she exist? If so, was she a writer?
The thing that astonishes me now, remembering the dream, is that I had that experience and still did not realize that I am a writer. I’m only just realizing that, here, today…I wonder if I’ll ever truly believe it.
In my younger life I worked as a designer in furniture stores. That was my dream job. One of my coworkers had a very talented daughter who was starring in the local theater production of Annie, so of course I bought tickets. I decided to take my little niece and nephew. It would be the first live stage performance they would attend. And as we drove to the theater that night I explained what to expect, how this was not like a movie, how they couldn’t get up or make noise, how there would be an intermission, etc…and when I paused…from the back seat my niece declared in a low, brusque imitation of me, “AND NO OVERHEAD LIGHTING!”
Out of the mouths of babes, as they say! Apparently she had heard me – perhaps more than once – expounding about my disdain for overhead lighting…bless her heart. Hahahahaaaaa!
The short version of lighting class is this: 3 types: general, task and ambient. Of those, overhead fixtures, like the ubiquitous boob light in every American ceiling built after 1930, are the worst. Just the worst. They are ugly and inefficient. For the love of God, TAKE THEM OUT. They’re inhumane. They do one thing well, and one thing only – cast shadows. If you really must be able to walk into a room, flip a switch and have the room light up like an interrogation cell, at least install something less offensive. Something that throws light off to the walls perhaps. Preferably attach lamps to your switch. It used to be that each light switch inside a door would control the top plug of the nearest outlet…back when houses were built for civilized people. With intention, being to improve the quality of our lives. Chandeliers, btw, are not overhead lighting. Lighting means fixture. Light is what comes from a fixture or a lamp. A chandelier is a lamp. Do keep up. And a chandelier needs to be on a dimmer…you do know how to install a dimmer, right?
At any rate…I’m winding up this series on cottage sensibilities. Time to move on. I have. I’ve fallen back in love with my life and my home. Lifestyle changes are afoot and I will see where they lead. My love of the cottage aesthetic has not changed; I find it deeply healing and comforting. But I no longer feel the need to effort after it…I am the refugium. Ultimately it comes back to what it always comes back to: trust. I trust that the more I live intuitively, the better my surroundings support me.
There is such a thing as a country cottage life in a city townhouse, and Fin Fellowes proves it.
And a southern cottage…well…that is another lovely creature altogether. With no overhead fans…another bugbear – right up there with overhead lighting. There is something dastardly about a spinning fan overhead that gives me the willies. Don’t do it. Just say no. Be strong in your design convictions like Ellie Proctor.
If “God is in the details,” as architect Mies van der Rohe famously said, this cottage is heavenly:
Well, it happened that I had a completely different post scheduled for this morning. It’s a closing statement of sorts for the cottage rabbit hole I’ve been lost in the past couple of weeks. I rescheduled it for tomorrow. This just came up in my feed…and, well…it reminded me to appreciate being alive. Look at these faces and feel your heart open. Let’s join them in celebrating 20 years of The Marginalian and the joy of our humanness. “The music is to remind us how short a time we have a body.” – Richard Power
The cottage within me, within you, is our true heart. It is where we are safe and warm and known. For me now it looks like a midcentury modern perched high on a hill facing east. Like the prow of a ship it is strong, steadfast, dependable. A new roof here means that the house is secure again, watertight and ready to face the winter gales off Lake Michigan. This is my own personal House of Belonging.
You may remember me tell of “hearing” in meditation that I was being placed here. Of being taken out of dreams and flown here by witches, shown this was their well worn path, this sacred highway through the woods. Later the indigenous tribes would begin to follow the deer and bear that had traveled parallel the shore for centuries. Eventually it would be paved and become one of the most beautiful scenic roads in North America, M22.
Just outside the front door stands a crooked old Hawthorn tree, probably as old as me and house. Hawthorn is the sacred tree of the Celts, considered a portal between our world and the fairy realms. One of the first mornings after moving in here I woke as dawn was just peeking over the eastern hills, and walked silently out front with the dogs. We were face to face with dozens – maybe hundreds – of Cedar Waxwing resting in the Hawthorn. But they didn’t move. They stared at me as if I’d been expected.
It turns out they foretold of the many flocks of wild birds to come, resting here on their migration up the coast. I would wake on other mornings to a sea of red where my front lawn belonged, carpeted with Northern Flickers. And I would be awakened from an afternoon nap in the sun by the haunting calls of forty or more Sandhill Cranes just clearing the roofline as they flew above me. I’d also have to use my snow shovel to fend off a pair of bald eagles boldly eyeballing my little dogs that next winter.
Out the picture window to the south a triple birch tree rises well above the surrounding evergreens. It appears to be dancing joyously in the wind. It must provide a distant vista; it’s canopy is often full of crows. And outside my back door, on the western side of the house, are a maple and a tulip ash before the hill falls away toward the lake. There are three pair of Cardinal nesting there now. They wait patiently for the seed I put out; the Chickadees don’t even bother to leave the bench while I fill the feeder. Oh! And the twelve friendly turkeys just reminded me not to forget them this morning.
Something magical is going on here. I’d have to be a fool to ignore it.
I’ve talked about moving, and I might…from this house perhaps. But not from the area. This is my heart’s home, if not my dream cottage. That said, I won’t leave here lightly without thought. Or to be more honest, I won’t leave here unless I am re-placed. I won’t leave unless spirit guides me. I am in my 70’s now. It has taken me a lifetime to learn to live intuitively. I won’t go back to living conditionally. Me and my birds. And my trees. We will know.
Okay, so I know I said that my quintessential cottage style is Cape Cod. But today I want to take you to visit one of my very favorite house tours. It’s not Cape Cod. It’s a classic American Foursquare. It just so happens to belong to one of the premier architects in the country. It also happens to be in New York City.
This house literally makes my heart flutter; I have a visceral response. There is a longer tour on the Homeworthy channel if you’d like to see more.
I woke up this morning having dreamt about having friends in my new home. We were gathered around a big dining table eating and laughing. It wasn’t the house I recently missed out on. And I began to let go…not easy for me and my little ADHD brain. It organically and spontaneously occurred to me…as I woke and sat up, slowly…that perhaps there is something even better to come. And now I am free of the sense that I missed out. It had to happen for my nervous system in it’s own sweet time, and I knew it would. Maybe that trust is something that comes with age; I’m not sure. I’m onward and upward now…developing the dream. Following the intuitive clues. With a heart full of hope and wonder.
…and if that doesn’t epitomize cottage life, well…I dunno what does. And this house showcases why I love Cape Cod architecture. Bead board paneling, wide board floors, double hung windows, butcher block and marble, big deep sink…lots of white and cream and colorful artwork. Wicker and wrought iron and wonder. Playful and life affirming. Collected. Warm and friendly, relaxed. This is cottage.
First time visitors to my home, albeit rare these days, always comment on the same thing: it is colorful. I like color. I like any color, as long as it is green.
This week we’ve been exploring some interior design ideas. But there is some awareness trying to get through this surface study, something much deeper. I am hoping you will come along on this excursion into interior spaces, those we live in – and those we live from. It is wild here, the trees are losing their leaves. The light has changed, the birds are leaving. And something is in the wind…
So I’ve had a little think about the influence of favorite designers, how they differ and what they have in common. And why it matters to me. Like anything in life, I tend to be extraordinarily picky and persnickety. (I’d love to take something lightly, and should that ever happen you will be the first to know). Meanwhile, have I mentioned that I have ADHD? Persnickety is my middle name.
In my fantasy world the designer I would want to work with is likely unavailable (isn’t any man I would ever want a relationship with)?! The interior of his home on Shelter Island is the house that most reminds me of the home I grew up in. I went up and down that stairway a dozen times a day. I could move right in tomorrow and I’m certain my dreams would change. Something would heal deep in my subconscious. I wouldn’t change a thing in this house. Let’s take a quick look:
Alfredo Paredes is the designer Ralph Lauren hired to do his homes. Here he has achieved a comfort level your nervous system will feel long before you understand why. My Mother did that, naturally, and with almost no budget. Our home was filled with old wicker that had belonged to my grandmother. She had inherited the antiques and the rugs and the lamps – even the dishes. They weren’t necessarily good quality. They were practical. Both she and my grandmother had an eye. My Mother shopped at church sales and the Saint Vincent de Paul charity shop decades before vintage became a style. It wasn’t so much about the way things went together as it was about the way things felt. Our house wasn’t fancy, but it was the house everyone gravitated to. It was beautiful and comfortable. Isn’t that the epitome of cottage style, after all?
Just when I’m about to explain how you can’t have a midcentury modern open floor plan cottage, along comes Canadian designer Karen Cole to prove me wrong. It’s easy to see why her lakeside cottage makes her happy:
Now, that’s more like it. This I could also live in, and actually this reminds me more of my current home as it stands, although I’d give my eye teeth for those hexagonal terracotta tile floors.
“Finding your cottage is like Goldilocks finding the chair that is just right. It wraps around you in cozy fashion and all seems right with the world.” – Marianne Agnew
So if we compare these two very different weekend retreats, what have they in common? What are the elements that make them cottages? There is the lovely proximity to the water, should you be so fortunate to have that view. But I have great views of rolling countryside. I’m surrounded by and trees and wildlife. I could walk to the lake but it’s uphill all the way back, so I prefer the short drive. I prefer that to living on the water, actually. I grew up on the water. There is little protection from the harsh elements and a great deal more maintenance. I’m looking for easier these days.
Light plays a big part. Light has so much to do with comfort. Seasonal light, soft light. The colors of nature, an appreciation of natural elements. A mix of old and new. There is a lot of green and greenery. Personally for me, the finishes and surfaces are matte. If something began it’s life shiny, I prefer it tarnished. Everything gets repurposed. Pets and children are welcome on the furniture, nothing is off limits. There is a reading lamp next to every comfy chair. Lots of blankets and quilts. Imperfectly perfect. As the English would say, everything is a little higgledy-piggledy. There we go; couldn’t have said it better myself. But Alfredo Paredes says it best: not self-conscious.
What is a cottage life? It seems I’ve been fascinated with cottages since I bought my first design book back in high school – probably in the 60’s. We lived in a cottage, albeit a large one. My young parents had five children while still in their twenties. They needed a lot of room for a little money. The house they purchased was a Cape Cod, built by an architect a hundred years previous to house three generations of his family. It was built as three flats, bermed into a hillside overlooking the Detroit River. My parents turned those three flats into a single family home. Sadly when I look it up now on Zillow it has been turned into many small apartments with most of the original charm removed. What is wrong with people? Never mind…don’t answer that…
When I was looking to move closer to my adult son ten years ago, house hunting on a limited budget with elderly dogs in tow, I ended up in a cottage. This house was built in 1955, by an architect who was a professor at Michigan State University, as a summer getaway. It is a style known as Midcentury Modern.
Now if you were to list every architectural style on planet earth, including igloos and teepees and straw huts, I would list Midcentury Modern as my absolute least favorite style. I don’t dislike it. I abhor it. Believe me, I have studied this genre of architecture since moving here – and I can find little to like amongst the best of it. It is not lost on me that I myself am midcentury modern, born early in 1954. And growing up in a highly dysfunctional home might be triggering an adverse reaction. However I like to think it’s much more of an intellectual response as I did study art and architecture in school. I also happened to have gone to school at Kingswood Cranbrook, one of the most artistic architectural communities in the country.
My opinion is considered. I’ve honestly given it a wide berth of time and space. I’ve genuinely tried, okay? It’s just ugly. There is much to like about it’s predecessor, Arts and Crafts style. Think Macintosh, William Morris, Tudor Revival and Craftsman bungalows.
Most of the original style of my house was also removed in earlier renovations, and the one element that I do appreciate about mid-mod remains: the wide roof overhangs. This was quite simply the best house for us, the dogs and I, because of the setting. And remember, I had exhausted the deadline of my government mortgage approval and my exasperated realtor had shown me everything on the market within my area and price range. This was the fourth house I had bid on; the first three sold way over asking price. Most of the houses I could afford were not even livable, let alone move-in ready. Like, they had no heating system or electricity. One house had a toilet in a closet off one side of the kitchen and a shower stall in a closet on the opposite side of the kitchen – and the kitchen sink was where you washed your hands after using the toilet. So…not exaggerating. Almost walking away from this deal twice I had heard in meditation, “you are being placed.” I’m not sure that I will ever know exactly why I was placed here, but it has proven to be a fabulous setting in a desirable location. Tucked behind a sand bluff 400 feet above Lake Michigan, this house will shelter me financially as well as physically.
And so for that reason, as well as my artistic sensibilities, I will do my best to honor the architectural integrity of this house and restore it as I can. I don’t believe in trying to turn a Cape Cod into a Victorian, and likewise will protect the Midcentury Modern elements remaining here. Someone someday will love it for what it is – and isn’t that the best we can all hope for?
In the rural midwest where I live there are a plethora of vacation cottages of all sizes and shapes. But there are few older than the 20th century. And far fewer specific to the Cape Cod or shingle style I covet. I’d have far more choice in the eastern states, even Ohio, western New York or Pennsylvania. I’ve studied. So when I say that I don’t come across many houses I actually like here, I mean it.
I’m looking for original details like wrought iron door hardware and double-hung two over twos. I don’t like ceramic tile; I want old terracotta. IYKYK. I’m looking for a cottage that you could pick up from northern Michigan and set down on Nantucket and it would appear to be right at home. I’m thinking there are may be about 8 of them – if I’m lucky – within a 300 mile radius. But as I said yesterday, I never give up. I’ve had many beautiful homes in my adult life – none I have liked anywhere near as much as the Cape Cod I grew up in, and not one I would buy again as my tastes have developed, or become more defined. Hence this sense that I’d like one last energetic push to find a home that supports my lifestyle as well as my aesthetic.
While I cannot afford to hire a designer, or to do a remodel in anything other than tiny increments, this Midcentury Modern cottage on Lake Michigan has many of the same elements as my current home, including that brick fireplace wall that runs through the middle of the living area and extends outside. Also like the house shown in this video, my house gets battered all winter with gale force winds. In the summer the setting sun hits the large west facing windows and inside it feels like being an ant under a magnifying glass. But I want to explore the possibilities for making my house the best it can be, and then later this week let’s talk about how to support a chosen lifestyle. Because, unlike the owners of this little beach house, I am not on vacation here.