One of the rabbit holes I’m down lately is longevity. Of course, I follow Peter Diamandis, and have for over a decade after reading his book, Abundance: The Future is Better Than You Think. His TED talk of 2012 is life changing. As he often says, just try to not die from something stupid. Apparently advances in medical science are about to give us the ability to live much longer. With improved quality of life…because, well, who would be interested in anything else.
On the surface at least, it would seem this improved quality of life and lifespan are intricately intertwined. And relatively simple to replicate for even us struggling masses. Diet and exercise are key. And good mental health. One of the basic things the doctors agree on – get outdoors every day as early in the day as possible. Hmmmmm….
First of all. Where do you live, Doc?! Here in rural Michigan, well…I’m up 3-4 hours before daylight. Not walking outside then. I have bears, wolves, coyotes, bobcat…inside my fenced back yard. They go wherever they want. Here at the mid-mod ranch, I’ve had to fight off a pair of bald eagles with a snow shovel. They were using my low-pitched roof to hunt from. And at five foot six and 175 pounds I looked like lunch. They were actually swooping low over my two small dogs, but they were staring me right in the eye. I felt endangered.
Never mind the microscopic deer tick that almost did do me in. Didn’t see that coming at all. Does that count as something stupid? I suspect it would, as being bit by a tick is somewhat preventable if you are careful and know what to look for. Aware, as I certainly am now. My son was aware but still got bit and contracted Lyme. Fortunately he caught it right after infected. He had the bullseye rash show up and was able to get immediate treatment. They take this seriously where I live.
Okay. Enough with the doomsday report. Do check in with Peter Diamandis every so often. He will keep us focused on a hopeful future. He is undaunted by my negativity. He talks about a science called Longevity Escape Velocity. It is the study of how to extend our lifespan faster than we are aging. He says we only have to live a little longer in order to live a lot longer, and therefore “don’t die from anything stupid,” meaning anything preventable. I’ll be staying indoors this morning…
She’s the Colour Curator of Farrow and Ball. There’s my dream job sorted. She doesn’t tell you what colors to use – she invents them. A friend recently asked me the color of my bathroom walls…uh…I dunno. I had 3 partial gallons of leftover paint and I mixed them until I got something I sorta liked. I will often do that. Not because I think I’m going to come up with anything better than I could buy, but because I hate wasting paint. Never mind the environmental damage of disposing of it. I go through a lot of paint. Are you familiar with Fordite?! Fordite (or Detroit agate) is what was created in the Ford Motor Company painting facilities when the many layers of automobile paint would build up thickly on the factory walls. Now they “mine” it – chip it off the walls and make jewelry from it. My house is going to be like that soon. Years ago another friend once commented that I would be losing square footage if I kept repainting. It’s what I do…I make no excuses for it.
Joa Studholme tells us that color will “completely change the spirit of a home.” Did you know your house has a spirit all it’s own? It does. Here Joa walks us through her own home, where she takes her inspiration from the countryside around her. The color of the cows were the choice for the window frames. I love it. She wanted it to be a treat; job done.
Like in her kitchen, painting the inside of a window jamb a sunny gold or yellow is an age-old design trick that will brighten any room on a gloomy day. Who says it can’t be a different color than the room? Wasn’t me. We are artists, people! What color will you treat yourself with in your home this week? Paint a fun stripe somewhere, or even just a door. Go ahead, try it. I dare you.
“Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.” – Emily Dickinson
Baptized Mary Katherine Crawford, my maternal grandmother Mimi was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. She lived most of her adult life in Michigan after marrying my grandfather, but she never lost her southern accent. Or charm. Or that great cooking gene that I did not inherit. When you came to her house she was not happy unless you were eating. Breakfast always included biscuits and gravy. From scratch. You smelled the pies cooling coming up the street.
In grade school I wrote her a book of poetry. I remember tying together the pieces of paper into a hand made tome and penciling the title on the cover: Mimi Beanie Bellie-Beenie (chocolate cake or ice cream-eenie?). Dear woman, she was never not kind. We children absolutely adored her. As the first grandchild on both sides…well, let’s just say I was a little spoiled. I credit having had four grandparents around as my salvation. Hind sight being what it is, I have no doubt they all did their best to be a positive influence. They had to be watching my parents descent into addiction with horror. And they didn’t see the half of it.
When you are my age and you discuss your lifelong depression with your doctor at your yearly Medicare physical (they have to ask), they recommend therapy. And so, I gratefully have a weekly session via Zoom. I love my “care manager.” I’ve always said that I have to be in therapy to cope with all the people in my life who aren’t in therapy. Long ago I’d confide my frustrations to Mimi more than anyone else in my young life. She would say, “you’re alright, kid. The world’s all wrong.” Hooo boy, she was not just whistlin’ dixie…
She had a funny way of talking that I attributed to being from the south. If you asked her a question and she didn’t know the answer she would respond, “I am not knowing.” I was still in grade school when she was diagnosed with uterine cancer and told she had about six months to live. I certainly don’t remember any of that ordeal. I know she went through surgery, chemo and radiation, but I was entirely unaware of her suffering. She lived another lifetime again, into her 80’s – before the cancer would finally take her. When asked about it, she would simply state that she would rather die than go through that treatment again. I’ve heard that said by almost everyone I’ve loved now, myself being one of the lucky few who hasn’t had to face that demon.
What makes one person luckier than the others around them? Of the seven members of my biological family I am the only one to escape the long evil tendrils of substance addiction, of cancer or heart failure, of crushing depression. At 70 I haven’t had cancer or heart problems, knock on wood. In spite of scoring 8 out of 10 on the Adverse Childhood Experiences test (no to #6), I manage depression, I am functional, and sane. I am fairly happy most of the time. The simple pleasures of my days far outweigh the occasional difficulties. I am truly blessed and highly favored. But I do look back and long for a deeper life, a more authentic connection. I wish I’d known more of what I didn’t know, at least how to ask the questions I wish I’d known to ask. What was that like for you, Dad? What do you really want, Mimi? What would you do differently now, Mom?
My grandfathers were building railroad tracks in Detroit and across the country during the boom of the automobile industry, and my father inherited that business. But he was a frustrated artist. When my parents 27 year marriage broke up after raising 5 children together, my father would come out to us all and confide that he had always been living a double life as a gay man. He never had a choice back then. Neither did he have the choice to be a musician instead of a contractor. It wasn’t gonna pay the bills. My mother’s choices were even fewer.
Like most middle class parents in the 1950’s post war economic boom, they sheltered we children from any hardships we accidentally caught glimpses of. We didn’t watch the news. We watched Ed Sullivan; he had a really big shoe. They made up stories about where people and pets had gone when we were confused by their absence. If Mimi had bad days during cancer treatment we certainly didn’t see them.
Our every physical whim was met with all the food and comfort and luxury my parents could possibly provide. Music and merriment were abundant. Holidays were exaggerated celebrations always full of people and gifts and singing and dancing and games. I remember asking why we needed so many televisions and record players; there was one in almost every room. Some nights they were all going at once. Our house was full and loud and chaotic. We had a somewhat tongue-in-cheek saying in our household: “life is a party.”
But some precious opportunity was lost in my parents’ utopia. Something is always lost in any falsely contrived utopia. It manages to keep life humming along quite superficially, and it tends to create the side effect of anxiety. Especially when eventually faced with any challenge and realizing that reality wasn’t so real. There’s a reason they say ignorance is bliss, and it’s because awareness is painful. Growing up is hard to do.
That said, it’s the only dance in town. There is no way out but through. If there is any more meaningful reason for being here, now, well…I am not knowing.
The PBS series is called Brief But Spectacular, to which I must respond, “yes.” Just yes. I became 70 years old this year. I was already intimately familiar with ageism; it’s been tedious for the past 20 years. Recovery from c-PTSD has taught me nothing if not how harmful it has been to skirt the issue of my invisibility. Like Grace, I refuse to be irrelevant:
But I’ve also dealt with gender inequality all of my life. And being raised to stand against racial prejudice in Detroit, I’ve certainly had first hand experience with racial discrimination. I remember being denied a table in a nice restaurant with Black high school friends – as one example among dozens. I remember how that felt. Firstly, the dissonance of questioning what was happening. How I was horrified by it and my friends didn’t blink an eye.
I was 16 in 1970 when the movie Five Easy Pieces came out. My best friend’s family was moving to South Carolina that summer and they took me with them. We were staying in a hotel until the moving van arrived a day behind us, and to entertain ourselves we walked – as a family with her parents – across the street to see the new movie. When lawyer Dupea (Jack Nicholson) says not to worry, “they haven’t hung anyone around here lately – at least not anyone white…” the mostly Black audience let out a collective moan. Afterwards we went next door into a drug store to use the pay phone so that I could call home and check in with my parents. An elegantly dressed Black woman was on that phone and so I waited around. When she hung up and I walked up to grab the receiver the cashier let out a yell. She came out from behind the counter with disinfectant spray and a cloth and wiped down the entire phone before allowing me to touch it. What foreign country was this?! You think that cashier did that for everyone regardless of race? Don’t be naive.
In 1972 I became 18, legal voting age. As the descendent of a founding father and presidents who owned slaves, I was being courted by Daughters of the American Revolution and The John Birch Society. I didn’t contact them, they contacted me. (It would be decades before technology would show that I have African DNA.) But I had never heard of these organizations, and so sought to educate myself. Back then you did that by physically going to the library and The Detroit News archives. You had to be able to read, you had to own a car, know how to follow a map, and most importantly, be able think for yourself. I would take all of that for granted.
Many evenings I engaged in conversation with my parents about what this new responsibility meant and how to decide who to vote for. Bless their drug and alcohol raddled hearts, they both told me the same thing: always vote for the person you believe to be best qualified for the job. And so I did the logical thing – I volunteered to work for the campaign of Shirley Chisholm, certainly one of the most qualified people for the position of President the country has ever seen.
And then. Then she made that statement. I didn’t think much about it at the time, which proves how much I underestimated her brilliance. She said, “Of my two handicaps, being female put many more obstacles in my path than being Black.” Jesus. Let that sink in.
Fast forward a little over five decades, and I am still female and now I am also aged. Don’t be fooled, ageism is as real as any form of bigotry. It is just as invisible as my African blood. And my blood is boiling.
Please remember, always click on the blog heading for the updated version as I often edit after hitting publish…
The cat woke me around six a.m. His bowl was empty. This is my favorite time of day, just as the sun is coming up. But I hadn’t slept well and I really didn’t want to get up. My son was already in the kitchen getting ready for his work day. He’s been staying here since his relationship broke up. Feeling he had no other choice, he left her with the house they bought together, her teenagers, the dogs they adopted, his dreams, and oh yeah, much of his self worth stayed behind, too. He has continued to be as supportive of them as he possibly can be, physically, emotionally, and financially. This has required considerable patience on my part (let alone my friends and therapist) – but then, I don’t want to be the mother-in-law who thinks her son can do no wrong. I’ve had one of those.
The day he called and asked if he could come here I felt a huge sense of relief. Finally. Watching the abuse he seemed determined to cope with was nothing short of painful. He was mimicking the scapegoat role I had so effectively demonstrated for him my entire life. Everything about us must be wrong because God knows we never did anything right. But perhaps some healing could finally happen. We are a multi-generational family of survivors – survivors of alcoholism, physical and verbal abuse, and blatant narcissism. Our awareness continues to grow as our healing unfolds.
He’s been here longer than either of us expected; the better part of two years now. It has not been easy. But most days I am grateful for this time to get to know him as an adult, to spend time together investigating family history, to address our mental and emotional dysfunction, to have the opportunity todo the healing work we both need and deserve. I’m in my seventies, he’s in his forties, and for the first time in our lives we are safe. We have a safe place. I wonder where that will lead us.
Most mornings I am up hours before him or any hint of daylight. I feed the cat first (the boss of me), make coffee and head back to my cosy room with a book. If I haven’t fallen back to sleep, I hear him in the kitchen but leave him in peace. Well, I leave me in peace, because let’s be honest – I am far too easily irritated when my thoughts are disrupted before I’m ready to talk. But this morning I wandered out and made us both coffee. Here’s why he is one of the few people (okay, maybe the only person so far in this life) I’ve ever been able to live with: he is funny. He is blessed with my mother’s sense of humor. My brother had it, too. I was not so blessed. He is funny right from the get go when his feet hit the floor. Wow that is impressive!
My auDHD does not allow me to think that fast. So when I caught myself scowling this morning, I circumvented my crabbiness by saying, “Help me out here, please. My face is stuck,” revealing my frown. I had just sat down at my laptop. He simply replied with a directive: “Hello, Dolly by Louis Armstrong.”
Little did he know it would bring tears. I was ten years old the year my mother took me to see the musical at the Fisher Theatre. It starred Angela Lansbury. God, growing up in Detroit in the 1960’s was magical. As a privileged white child, of course. But back then what did I know…
OR, how to get there from here…I am nothing if not stubborn. But stubborn won’t get me where I want to go. Stubborn is a characteristic of defensiveness. Transformed into determination, however, it becomes a super power. My super power.
True confession: I’ve been in a funk. In case that wasn’t painfully obvious by the last few posts. And I have HAD IT with that routine. Remember, we aren’t havocing it anymore.
“Life can so suck, to use the theological term. It can be healthy to hate what life has given you, and to insist on being a big mess for awhile.” – Anne Lamott
When I am not honest with myself that I am grieving I become a royal pain in the butt. I won’t allow myself the grief, or make time for it. As if I have something better to do. It feels self indulgent, cloying. I judge it, especially if it’s been around for awhile. I judge myself. It gets ugly. For instance, I mention my mother here often. She’s been dead over 20 years. I miss her every day. I simply will never get over losing her. She was my greatest champion. Many days it feels like she was my only champion. Everybody deserves one.
If Doris exemplified anything her entire life, it was determination. She had limitless energy. She was like the energizer bunny. Actually, hyper. I didn’t get that gene. In many respects I’m much more like my father, who was quite the opposite. To the untrained eye most would consider him lazy. He kinda wasn’t willing to do anything he didn’t feel like doing. Least effort possible was his approach to life. In the wisdom of my old age I now understand that he, too, was a victim of trauma. He was always defensive.
I strive to be more like my mother as I am growing up. And therein lies the key that opens me back up – I’m growing up. I’m growing. I’m becoming. I’m a work in progress; a verb. That gets more difficult for me to keep in perspective as I am now in my 70’s. And I believe that I have unconsciously adopted some less-than-useful cultural limitations, such as: I am old. And done. And fully formed. Nope. Not done yet. Still growing. And always will be, right up until my last breath.
My father played the piano as if he were born at it. Mom struggled to teach herself the guitar. He sang loudly and lived defiantly. He had hubris. She was shy and soft-spoken. She had humility. He loved honky-tonk; she loved folk. She would close herself in the bedroom to practice and sing, and I would sneak up outside the door and sit on the floor to listen.
Nearing the end of 2024 I am wondering if I will ever “bounce back” from the pandemic. Have you? Do you think there is any bouncing back? I think we are changed forever. I know I am. There are two distinctive reasons I will never be the same, and I would like to share them if you will indulge me. I’d like to hear how it has affected your life. Even if the changes aren’t obviously attributable to the pandemic itself. How has your life changed in the last (almost) five years?
This morning I am needing to chew on the left side of my mouth. I am going through a series of periodontal treatments in an effort to save my teeth. The first treatment was originally scheduled for March – 2020. That didn’t happen. It was cancelled due to the shutdown. By the time we seemed to be coming out of that horrific nightmare scenario and the dentist called to reschedule, I was battling Lyme disease. My face was disfigured by Bell’s Palsy and I was beginning a series of acupuncture treatments for that. Thankfully those worked to restore most of the muscle use in my face, although not completely. Acupuncture is not covered by Medicare insurance. Neither is periodontal work, but they’re both necessary.
The other event that was cancelled that spring was a huge luxurious and much needed mental health vacation. It was a workshop I was scheduled to attend near Scottsdale, Arizona. Led by two of the most revered influences in my life, Elizabeth Gilbert and Rob Bell, the spiritual retreat was titled How to Imagine.
One of my closest friends lives in Tucson and had decided to attend after I told her about it. She offered to share her room at the resort hosting the weekend. But I didn’t think I could come up with the workshop fee, let alone the air fare. When I spoke about it another friend offered an airline credit. I was yet undecided. It would be a stretch financially and I would have to arrange in-home pet care for my elderly dogs.
Meanwhile, it was a local friend’s January birthday and we met for dinner. She was so excited to tell me all about the workshop she had just registered for…you guessed it. By this time I knew I had to go. It was meant to be and I would beg, borrow, or steal to get there. I did a little of each and managed to get registered in time for an early bird discount. Now I had two close friends who would be there, and something inside me knew this held profound healing opportunity.
When the airlines shut down the workshop was cancelled. I’m not sure why, but I have never gotten over the disappointment. Something inside me snapped. All manner of magical synchronicities had occurred to allow me that gift and I suddenly felt like a child whose dreams were never to be. I must have transferred a basketful of grief to this because I was disproportionately leveled. It was the straw…
Subconsciously I had decided that trip would be a pivot point in my life. By making that commitment happen, I could then give myself some unearned or undeserved permission to live creatively that I would not otherwise permit myself to have. I have not yet recovered that authority. Perhaps I won’t.
And here I sit, almost five years later, chewing on the right side of my mouth, still feeling like I’ve missed something. My Mother would say, “move along smartly.” And she was a very wise woman, so…watch this space…
The truth is that I don’t know where to begin…I bought this house for my beloved two little rescue dogs. Hariat was five years old when we adopted her from the Lakeshore Pembroke Welsh Corgi Rescue. I said we because I was married at the time, and we drove almost five hours south to pick her up from the farm where she was being fostered. Down and back in one day. When we arrived home that evening our sweet corgi Oliver was waiting with my brother and Dad, who lived with us at the time. We lifted Ariat, as she was named then, out to the driveway to meet Oliver at nose level. Oliver was the second corgi we had adopted a few years prior. They smelled one another and did a runner around the yard. Our mouths dropped open; they acted like they recognized each other and were the oldest of friends getting reacquainted. They were genuinely glad to see each other. Adjustment time = zero days.
Several months prior we had lost my darling Christie, or Arborglenn Pastel of Christie as she was registered with the AKA. Her mother had been US Champion of Breed, and she was the first corgi I had ever known. She was the canine love of my life and 15 years was far too short a time together. I was devastated losing her and had no intention of ever opening my heart to another dog again. At that time Oliver had been with us a few years. He was devastated, too. But during a routine checkup for Oliver the vet asked how we were getting along without Christie and I burst into tears. The vet admonished me and insisted I consider adopting another dog. A few months later we were blessed to find Ariat.
Ariat had been a working dog on a horse farm, named after a brand of equestrian gear. But her name was difficult for the three curmudgeon men of the house. And so she and I discussed the issue and agreed we would add an H to the beginning of her name. Problem solved. She would teach me that I could open my heart again. She was an angel in a dog suit.
We lived in a beautiful saltbox colonial in the lovely wooded suburb of Shorter Lake Woods. I not-so-affectionately called it the snub-division of Stepford Lake Woods. I loved the house itself, not the snooty neighborhood or the ridiculous homeowners association.
We had three neighbors, each a half acre away, including the HOA president next door. The homes on either side were barely visible through the mature pine trees unless you were actually outside in one of the side yards. The house across the road was visible through the western living room window. But it seems they could see us, and we were in constant non-compliance to one of the many rules.
One summer weekend I had a friend visit from downstate, a Michigan State University graduate with a degree in landscape design. She commented that the trees were past their maturity and in dire need of attention. I had no idea! And what do I do about that? “Well, she responded, we can do some trimming right now for starters.” And she was up and out, grabbing her very impressive lopers from the trunk of her car. And she and I worked all day trimming lower branches, her teaching me why this was good for the health of the tree and how it would benefit the canopy. We transplanted perennials I didn’t even realize would flower in some sun. We made mulch out of gathered pine needles. I hadn’t worked that hard in years. I would get a letter three days later from Mr. President informing me that I was not allowed to trim trees. It must be done by a professional arborist.
It hadn’t been long before that when old Christie had been laying out on the front lawn one day. She was quite lame by this time, and deaf and blind. Oliver had been an abused puppy before we adopted him, always timid and terrified of strangers. So he lay on the front porch well behind Christie. I returned home from work and turned in my drive behind a strange white truck. The county animal control. Seems they had received three complaints about our dogs. The officer got out of his truck and approached the house and neither dog moved. Maybe they attempted a muffled insincere bark. He asked if we could speak inside. He informed me that he had received three complaints, one from each of our barely visible adjacent neighbors. All on the same day. One at 11 a.m. The next one at noon. And – yep, you guessed it – the third at 1 p.m. Apparently the complaint was that our two small elderly dogs had been using their yards as bathrooms. There were dogs who did do that. They were large unattended dogs. One I recognized from a few doors down; most of the time I did not know them. I was always picking up after those dogs also. But even the county police officer acknowledged that we had a problem here with a bored out of work HOA president. He laughed about it. I didn’t see the humor. But I did know what this was about, and which husband was behind it (namely mine) and the political argument that had instigated the disdain.
Fast forward a couple of years and everything had changed. Christie was gone. Dad was gone. Now Oliver was deaf and blind and Hariat his constant protector. I was divorced, traumatized, and lived alone with both dogs. No living parents to appease, my brother now refused to speak to me. I had gone no contact with one sister. I had moved away from Manville. Yep. That house which I never named became known to me as Manville, after a horrible nightmare one night where I was stranded in a town of that name, fearing for my life.
Intuitively I have always felt a connection to every house I’ve ever lived in. I believe that, like a marriage, a third entity is created when these bonds are formed. It has a life all it’s own. We enter into a contract of care, and the commitment is not to be taken lightly. The home requires and deserves our attention and respect. It depends on us and in return it protects us. Treat it well and it will nurture our spirit.
A house becomes a home when we interact with it, when we feel safe there. When we express our gratitude for it. If we allow, it becomes a “thin place” where the veil between worlds is thin. I’ve moved twice in the dozen years since Manville. I cannot voice my gratitude without tears. I’ve since lost Oliver and Hariat and my brother. In my previous home I adopted a miniature beagle named Odie from the Kent County Animal Shelter, and I’ve since lost him. We agreed to take care of a Maine Coon cat named Chewy for a couple of months a couple of years ago. For over a year he and Odie were inseparable, and now it’s just me and Chewster. This house has enveloped us all, and a grieving adult son. This house deserves an affectionate moniker. This is the bright home in which I live.
Renowned American architect and best selling author Gil Shafer takes us along to his vacation retreat in Maine. Shafer is known for his reverence to the historical beauty of traditional east coast style. I grew up in a Cape Cod cottage on water, and it would be decades before I acknowledged it’s profound effect on my psyche. I agree with Gil Shafer when he says, “you live differently in different places.”
Here he took the existing building, which he bought for the setting itself, and worked with it’s less than ideal structure by embracing it’s strengths. I relate to this approach as I, too, live in a mid-century cottage which I bought because of it’s location and setting, known as the vernacular. Mid-mod, as it’s called for short, is my least favorite style of architecture. It’s right up there in my book with overhead lighting and open concept floor plans – which is to say that I have absolutely no use for it at all. In my book it’s in the chapter titled What Were They Thinking?
Mid-Mod is experiencing a huge revival. But then, ya know, America is simultaneously experiencing the dumbing down of our culture and the fall of our empire. I’ll leave you to draw the obvious parallels. You might have heard me say “meanwhile, back at the ranch…” because, let’s face it, mid-mod IS a form of ranch, neither offering much architectural interest. They sprung up in the building boom of post war industrial America for a reason, mainly that it was fast and cheap to build. Think plywood. That’s one of the reasons it was popular in the deserts of the southwest – it’s termite resistant. Then all of a sudden some opportunist decided it’s a “style” and set about convincing us that it’s desirable.
That said, my little home is well built. It was constructed of brick and concrete in the year 1955. The scoundrel I bought it from (NOT Gil Shafer) was in the process of flipping it, and buying it unfinished made it affordable to me. However, he had purchased it from the estate of the builder’s deceased wife and proceeded to gut it, taking out most of the original features. Now it’s a sad no-style-at-all house. And I absolutely love it, albeit primarily for the views. Though much smaller and humbler than the home in the video I do appreciate that my home has large picture windows from which to enjoy nature. I have coyotes and wild turkeys peering in at me from the deck, as if to say, “whatcha got to eat?” An occasional bobcat racing through the backyard, a meandering bear, huge flocks of birds migrating up the coastline, and of course, families of deer all year round. I’ve been intimidated right backwards in the door by a startled buck huffing and stomping it’s hooves, and been eyeballed too closely by a pair of hunting bald eagles on the roof.
My roofline also extends out further at the top, mimicking the look of a ship’s prow. Although almost a mile from a port town and the water, I am perched high on a hill near the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. And almost completely surrounded by water that includes Lake Michigan, inland Crystal Lake, and Betsie Bay. I live between two historic lighthouses. The summers are heaven on earth and the winters are…daunting. But quiet. Thankfully my sturdy cottage is a formidable fortress against the elements. I can adapt the architecture. The 45 degree driveway pitch, not so much…you’ll need 4 wheel drive to visit.
Watching this video gives me so many new ideas. I’ll be going out for a can of paint tomorrow. But I especially love the suggestion of writing my house a love letter. How about you? Let’s write love letters to our homes, and let’s begin with gratitude.
Gil Shafer is one of my favorite design authors. His books, gorgeously published by Rizzoli, are available here through my Amazon Affiliate link: Home At Last, https://amzn.to/3B5PUZw; The Great American House, https://amzn.to/4gtBMd4; A Place to Call Home, https://amzn.to/3XCej1K
And here are some budget friendly ideas taken from Gil Shafer’s inspiration in this video. How about those bed curtains? For a fraction of the price of curtains, I would make them from painter’s dropcloths: https://amzn.to/4gftrJR. I love the sisal rugs throughout this home. Here is one example in a 4′ X 6′ size: https://amzn.to/3TqDqSH. I have an antique bottle that I’m making into a lamp, but it isn’t costing much less than this beauty: https://amzn.to/4d4Phge. But I am smitten with the mercury glass lamp we see in the bedroom. Here is a similar lamp I’m coveting:https://amzn.to/3Tob5wt. And you can never have too many wooden trays: https://amzn.to/3zkBfcr, or storage baskets: https://amzn.to/3MEXqx4. Have fun!
I’m stuck. I’m stuck in a cycle of fear. Nobody ever talks about fear, except to say let it go. As if I wouldn’t if I could be free instead. Fear is ugly. We don’t like to admit we have fear. It shows weakness, a lack of conviction, loss of personal power, a rift in the habit of prayer or a lack of discipline. Why pray when you can worry?
My fears are projections, to be sure. I’m not actually in any kind of immediate danger. What if my fears are unfounded? All I know is that it is 4 a.m. and my stomach is in one big hard knot. I have a lot of things I can worry about, some rather trivial and some quite serious dilemmas. Worry is a bad habit and I have well developed neural pathways for it. It doesn’t take much to speed along that highway. I need a runaway truck ramp for this heavy load.
Sometimes I just have to be with it. To talk to myself as if I am my only child; to be patient and soft. Soft. Not strong. I need to be just 10% more curious than afraid. Find just 10% more humor than skepticism…
“I will dream as I see fit.” – Phil, American Dreamer
A Painterly Home 