living a small, slow life in a small, slow town and loving every minute of it...please join my journal about aging, overcoming c-PTSD, living with chronic illness, and being creative in spite of it all.
“Urban art in a cute little countryside cottage.” says interior designer Anna Campbell. This is another tiny space jam-packed full of detail, and entirely comfortable in it’s vernacular. It’s one of my all-time favorites. The artist homeowner, Penny, says it herself, “I just feel I belong here.”
Belonging. Such a concept, but not likely what we think of immediately. In many ways I think all I ever wanted was to belong. The majority of my adult life until quite recently has been spent trying to create a sense of belonging, albeit misguided. I can look back in glorious, hilarious, hindsight and see it clear as day! I wanted a big, welcoming family home where everyone hung out and gathered for the holidays and made themselves at home. The home of my childhood, where I never did feel I belonged. Because I didn’t. I always felt like a visitor from a foreign land. I remember asking my poor Mother several times if she was certain that I was not adopted. As if, what?!, she wouldn’t recall giving birth to me? What a silly child. My Mother would assure me that all five of her children had the same mother and father, although she was entirely perplexed by their differences. Like part of any family, we had much in common. We were nothing alike.
My favorite poem is called The House of Belonging, by David Whyte. It pretty much sums up why the concept of HOME and belonging are so important to me. Here are the last few stanzas:
“This is the bright home in which I live, this is where I ask my friends to come, this is where I want to love all the things it has taken me so long to learn to love. This is the temple of my adult aloneness and I belong to that aloneness as I belong to my life. There is no house like the house of belonging. “
…besides my head. Pardon me, I couldn’t resist. If God is in the details, Fiona de Lys is an angel incarnate. Here I am, still in wonder. Join me in my rabbit hole this morning? What do fashion, storytelling and rest have in common? Let’s visit Fiona and have a look ’round and see what we can learn about living a creative life…a deep, soul quenching life of peace.
Her home tells a story, a “narrative” as she calls it. She is telling us her personal story – about what she loves about her home, color, and her work. She can’t separate those out, nor should she. Let’s face it, our homes are at once metaphor and expression. Fiona was being restored as the space was being restored. When life’s changes (whether chosen or forced) require a move we must slow down and listen.
When she talks about the home needing to breathe she is describing a physical characteristic of many European and northern African houses. The lime finish on the walls is an organic material, a kind of chalky plaster. The climate is not friendly to gypsum, or what we call drywall. In her stairwell you see it’s natural state before any color is added. It’s a soft, mottled finish. And it does contract and expand with the temperature and humidity.
She likely added solid flooring. That is a fairly new addition there. Many old English country houses are open to the ground underneath the floorboards or bricks. Most of them do not have central heating systems. That is why you see doors on every room; they closed the heat of the fire in to stay warm. If they are listed (on the historic registry) they were built long before these amenities had been invented. Having a “cooker”, or Aga, later became the only source of heat other than open fires. Notice the desk in her dining room is almost as old as the U.S. How is it that we are not humbled by how much we have to learn and how much we take for granted? I’m convinced that if we possess any emotional intelligence at all it came from our ancestors through our genes. But I digress…
This home is full of interesting details and ideas. I’d love to hear what you noticed and liked. Fancy trying any of them?
I am new to the Amazon Affiliate program, and have yet to figure out the technology of adding a section to the blog. Any link from inside the YouTube video is from the sponsor, in this case, Homeworthy. The links following here provide me with a small commission should you make a purchase. Let’s start with the shoes. I have these! They look just like the Amazon essentials I love, found here: https://amzn.to/3X7y3e0 They’re comfortable and I wear them often. William Morris coffee table book for inspiration: https://amzn.to/4c2om4B, Green Kimono: https://amzn.to/4aEln1a
As someone who has suffered with migraines all my adult life, I cannot imagine surviving a headache that lasted 14 years. Talk about courageous! But there are aspects to this story we have all endured. What miracle are you? May I suggest you are too holy to be spoken. May I suggest we never tiptoe…
Do you watch house hunting shows like Escape to the Country and Location, Location, Location and House Hunters? Do you have a dream house? Do you design and decorate homes in your daydreams? Do you watch Nancy Meyers movies just to see the houses?!
I remember years ago when my former husband and I were house hunting. The realtor was a family friend, and I not only managed to offend him inadvertently (ouch,) but I think he was probably convinced I was nuts by the time we purchased a home. I know my husband thought so.
The criteria I was looking for in a home made no sense whatsoever to these two men, including the experienced professional. What they didn’t know was that I was only sharing out loud the few things I thought would be reasonably acceptable to them. I dared not state all the features I was looking for. Among the things I thought were reasonable (hahahaaaa…) but they were flummoxed about, was a window in the bathroom. That really threw them for a loop. “Why do you need a window in the bathroom?” I’d prefer the fireplace be wood-burning, but there should at least be one. No subdivisions, no tri-levels. I said I wasn’t interested in tri-levels, or anything contemporary for that matter. He kept taking us to tri-levels. One day I just didn’t get out of the car. I wasn’t going to buy it, so why waste everyone’s time? “I don’t understand! It’s a nice house! Why won’t you look at it?!” In my smart ass way, I probably said, “well, I’ll just sit in the car and describe it to you from here. How’s that?”
I was secretly also looking for a front door to face east. I was adding the address numbers in my head and doing the numerology. Having telepathic conversations with the deceased former residents. You know, nuts stuff like that. I was looking for quirky, cosy features and they were all about the open concept. Let’s just say we were not on the same page.
It took years to realize that I belong in a small English cottage in a village, what Britains call “chocolate box.” That isn’t happening, although I’m closer – since I’m the only one making the decisions now. I traded some freedoms for some others, and some stresses for different stresses. I have no qualms about having made the right choice, and that isn’t anything I regret.
But I must tell you, after a decade on my own, I am just beginning to realize how much I compromised my own preferences and even dreams – and the true cost of that. Our sensibilities, our preferences, our dreams – they mean something. Without them, we lose our connection to our true selves, and then we consequently lose everything. The compromises were costing me my health and well-being, both physically and mentally.
If it matters to you never settle for less. Stop explaining yourself to people who are committed to misunderstanding you. Stop trying to justify your place in the world. Your ancestors lived through much harder times than this – so you could be here, now – so you could be you.
Seven years ago now, when I was looking for a home, I didn’t have many to choose from. The houses in my price range and area were selling fast and over asking price. My realtor (a woman, who was listening, just fyi) had told me that she didn’t have anything to show me until new listings became available. My son found this house on Craig’s list, of all places! It was in the middle of being flipped. But it had new mechanicals and windows and roof. I could finish the inside myself. It isn’t my style. In fact, it’s my least favorite style, Mid-century modern. But in actuality most of those features are long gone from previous owner’s remodels. This is a summer resort area, and it was originally built as a summer cottage. There are things about it I don’t like, but more that I love.
My front door faces east. The fireplace burns wood. There are two windows in the bathroom! It’s an old house with a good address in a little village. I have the world’s most colorful sofa, and believe me, it isn’t leather. It’s chenille. I want natural fabrics – cottons, velvets and linens. The art supplies live out in the open in my home. Every room has a little red. And a lot of green.
“…it’s cooker or pictures – and so you go, pictures – and worry about the cooker later.” – Cath Kidston
As pearls of wisdom go, I have two words of invaluable advice for anything at all that troubles you: Maira Kalman. I ask myself daily: WWMD = what would Maira do? Now, I’m not saying she’s an enlightened being…but she’s got more wisdom in her pinky than any guru I’ve ever encountered. Spiritual, schmeer-it-ual, I’m sticking with her.
For me, Maira is a great example of how an artist overcomes personal hardship and adversity while offering the world a piggyback ride on her healing journey – without ever losing grace or humor. Oh, she’s had her share of bad days. Her beloved husband Tibor lost his long battle with cancer at the age of 49 and left her with two young children. She exemplifies someone who incorporates grief, both personal and collective, with tremendous empathy and turns it into beauty. Curiosity moves her slowly through the world and she reports back to we lucky observers.
Lately, coming to terms with t h i n g s – like finding out I have a genetic disease that should have killed me decades ago, and like old age being ever so different than I expected…among other issues (!) I have become acutely aware of how much I appreciate quirky individuals who persevere. I have regrets, people, (can we talk?) about settling and about making too many compromises and about not taking my art seriously enough. I actually do wish I’d worked harder – at the things that I love. Mostly my regrets boil down to one common denominator: I didn’t TRUST myself, my intuition. I didn’t follow my dreams. It certainly is not too late for me, or for any of us. And I am enjoying life more now than I ever have. I appreciate the ordinary and everyday idiosyncrasies. I gladly traded wrinkles for the need to know. I’m learning to live in the questions. I like it.
Like Maira, I love British murder mysteries. I, too, revel in my inconsistencies. I, too, value an acute sense of the absurd. I value observation skills over job performance. I value ordinary life over extraordinary accomplishment. I value rest over productivity; I value silence and solitude. I value imagination over knowledge. I value Maira Kalman, and I value YOU. I’m not a fan of mint, however. Make mine a double – one scoop coffee and one scoop chocolate.
The year was 1966. My Mom took me to Macy’s in New York for school clothes and we bought Betsey Johnson paper mini-dresses…I was obsessed. I asked her if she could paint matching flowers on my face for the first day of junior high. About halfway through the day the Vice-Principal grabbed me by the arm with a stern look and nodded me toward his office. I was told in no uncertain terms to walk home for lunch and return without that stuff on my face.
My Mother was quite surprised when I walked in the door just after noon. She wasn’t expecting me. When I told her why I was home she was livid. She marched me right back into the Principal’s office – but I wasn’t in trouble – HE WAS! I wore painted flowers on my cheek every day after that. It wouldn’t be long before I asked my Dad to contribute: he gave up a pair of black socks so I could cut them into strips and hem the edges and my friends and I would wear them around our right upper arms. Black armbands signified our protest of the Vietnam war. My life as troublemaker had begun…and my wild parents sanctioned it.
Gil-Scott Heron told us the revolution would not be televised. Bess Myserson told Mrs. Smith that she didn’t have to buy war. And Betsey Johnson gave us fuchsia pink and lime green mini skirts. I was born this way, baby!
Suffice it to say Betsey Johnson has been a personal icon for over five decades now. I was in my 20’s when a roller skating friend came over to help bake cookies and declared my home “Tchotchke City.” Apparently there was a lot of stuff. Once again, light years ahead of my time (okay, a couple decades) I was a self proclaimed maximalist. I loved it when McDonalds started making Happy Meals. I collected the toys and proudly lined them up on the kitchen windowsill. Like my parents before me, I was a child with a child…in case I needed an excuse.
Betsey did not need an excuse. She never lost her playful spirit through codependency, as far as I can guess, because she didn’t have to. It was another influence, Virginia Woolf, who so wisely said, “Money justifies what would otherwise be frivolous.” I was young and my parents were still quite affluent and I had no idea of hardship. Not consciously, anyway. Life was still a lot of fun.
When did life become not-so-fun? I do know the answer to that question. I would never go back. That’s a saga that would span more than fifty years (so far,) and I am only now beginning to unravel the complexities of my life. I will say, if I have anything worthwhile to share as we venture forth, it’s that we must learn to live in the contradictions.
Last week I asked you to join me on a little adventure, to explore the connection between fashion, storytelling and sleep…and then I had a bout with illness. Seems I have to factor that in to my enthusiastic (and often unrealistic) time goals. Okay. But I am fascinated by the idea of what motivates us, how we treasure our creative spark as long as we live, and why. Do we lose our mojo because we get old, or do we get old because we lose our mojo? You don’t need me to answer that, do you?!
Let’s change sleep to rest and re-visit the concept of rest as conscious resistance, as withdrawal from the culture and our learned dissatisfaction. Let’s re-frame some of this curious exploration and learn to live in the questions – but let’s keep going. We owe this to ourselves, to get to the healing. Let’s honor that inner child and take her out to play…
Lately I’ve been struggling with extreme fatigue. Feeling lousy, my joints are stiff and surprisingly painful, so movement is difficult. I try to limit taking any medications, including Tylenol. My poor liver is as overwhelmed as the rest of me. The dishes are done. The sheets will get changed another day. The lawn mowed another day. The rain will water the garden. Let’s just visit The Unexpected Gypsy today…
My Mother never ever complained. About anything. She would famously say, “there’s nothing wrong with me” when we kids would corner her. We could see the pain on her face. Then she’d say, “there’s a hitch in my giddalong…” or, “the only thing wrong with me is that my children are trying to find something wrong with me.” Every so often she’d finally admit to a headache. I don’t know how she did it. She had five very spoiled children, 6 if you count my Dad, and most certainly many mornings had a hangover. As she aged her hands began to cramp up and become crippled with arthritis like her fathers had.
I am not my Mother. Try as I might to emulate her talent and tenacity, I whine. Regularly. I’m not proud. But today I have a hitch in my giddalong, both physically and mentally. Nothing is really wrong, but somethin’ ain’t right. Let’s just say it’s been a week. I began this week of writing most enthusiastically, setting out to explore the common denominator between fashion, storytelling, and sleep.
I think I do know the connection – it’s creativity, of course. But when I don’t get enough sleep I am anything but creative. Surly comes to mind. Coffee and Morning Pages certainly help. As I’ve talked about since I began this blog over 12 years ago now, Julia Cameron’s Morning Pages practice has saved my life, and certainly my sanity. When I don’t feel like writing – or think I have anything interesting going on, I may write stupid trivia, but I write. Some days I can barely think, and I might start by “reporting” to myself, the weather, the night’s holdings, any plans for the day, all of my frustrations, what I’m most surly about, and eventually listing things I am grateful for – even if I don’t feel grateful. Sometimes I can write myself free; sometimes I can’t. By free, I mean through a change of mental state, from anxiety or perfectionism to optimism and more creativity. It’s an invisible door that I have to find by feel.
But the real goal is always peace. Creativity is the how. It’s how I get to peace. It’s how I shift out of fear and toward expansion, possibility, and hope. It’s how I re-member myself. And that, quite simply is what fashion, storytelling and sleep have in common. Fashion, design, architecture, color – the ideas of others that excite and inspire me. Storytelling, mine or others, that incite curiosity and invoke my sense of human-ness, of belonging. And sleep, even if it wasn’t enough…dreams or nightmares, rife with the potential for more. These simple elements get me up, curious about what the day might hold, moving forward.
If I’m honest, I am needy much more often than I let on…it’s ugly. Like most of us, I grew up in a household that equated personal need as weakness. The culture, the times, reinforced this belief. But make no mistake – it’s a belief system. Learned. Un-learnable.
Now in my 71st year I am finally getting around to looking at what I want from life. What do I really – really – want? How much time and energy have I spent pursuing things that I thought I wanted, but that didn’t work? Why? Along the way too many compromises were made because of co-dependency, in an effort to make relationships and houses and jobs and situations work that were not an organic fit for me. Know thyself takes on a whole new meaning when life isn’t working. It turns out self awareness is key to being happy and healthy…duh.
Living in the Detroit suburbs in my 20’s, divorced far too young after marrying far too young, I sought counseling. The counselor, Jo, lived around the corner from me. She taught the first nationally accredited hypnotherapy program for Wayne State University, and she taught private courses in NLP (Neuro-linguistic Programming.) She was a huge influence. Shortly after we met through a mutual friend, she told me that the quality of my life experience would be directly reflective of my communication skills. I told her she’d lived in California too long. My usual objection to her platitudes was “I want tangible evidence.” It was my own feeble 1980’s rendition of “show me the money.”
She encouraged me to enroll in a weekend workshop on psychic development using NLP techniques that was being given at nearby Marygrove College. The facilitators were sisters who lived and practiced in a cloistered community a few hours away. I don’t remember if it was Canada or upstate New York. I do remember the experience vividly. I do remember that I was stressed. The cost of the workshop was a stretch, and it required I negotiate with my former husband to make certain I had my son’s care covered, and plan for backup with my family. And I couldn’t tell anyone what I was doing for fear of ridicule and reprisal.
Besides, I didn’t believe in psychics. Jo had tried to convince me that I had some psychic gift. I had no idea what the heck she was on about. The weekend would prove to me that I was psychic, although that didn’t really mean anything at the time. Isn’t everyone? Obviously anyone can learn these techniques; I just did. I can follow instructions – they told me what to do, I did it, it produced said results. So what? I actually still feel exactly this way, although I do see more value in the practice than before. The 2 people leading the workshop would pull me aside for private sessions and we would end up laughing and crying together. I wish I had paid more attention then, but I did not know how to get free of survival mode and be present, for myself or anyone. I’m learning to pay attention now. Better late than never.
Let me begin by giving an example of the tangible evidence I have stumbled clumsily upon: you cannot begin to understand self awareness if you don’t feel safe. Survival mode is just that – it focuses all your attention on being elsewhere and otherwise. If you are in survival mode you are stuck. Frozen in time. Unavailable. A walking zombie. Remotely controllable. I’ve lived much of life this way, and I do not recommend it.
So, yes, everyone is psychic. The important thing to know is that it is not some unique and weird complex trait. Let’s stop glorifying it as if it is magical and mysterious. It’s just a sense. It’s normal. It’s boring.
Where it’s value lies is in bringing us closer to knowing our selves. Now that we know self awareness is valuable – and not just selfish as we were taught to believe – why not utilize our natural capacities? Let’s salvage some tangible evidence about who we really are, authentically. And what it is we really need and want. It isn’t a shortcut to happiness, but it does short circuit our neurosis, our insecurities. Any time you feel needy or insecure, I invite you to ask yourself where you might have inadvertently picked up someone else’s expectation of you and are trying to fulfill it. I would ask you to pause and conduct a personal inquiry: what is it that I want here? Let’s be archeologists of our own personal culture and unearth those dreams…
What does fashion, storytelling, and sleep all have in common? This week I’m hoping you will join me on a little curiosity journey. I wish to explore some of the homes of artists, beginning today with the New Orleans home of Debra Shriver. I am also going to explore our personal development using our intuition, or psychic abilities. AND THEN, because I cannot separate these things in my own mind – I think we will discover the common denominator here. I believe there is an integral link that creative thinking has with intuition, or psychic awareness. Furthermore, I not only believe they are all part of the same function, but entirely dependent on one another. And, I am also convinced that our very survival depends upon us recognizing this. As it happens, this awareness is also intricately connected to our sense of safety, physically and psychically, and to our ability to rest and relax. They are all components of freedom, and I want more of that.
If you will indulge this exploration with me this week, I believe we will all feel better about ourselves a few days from now. Ready?
A Painterly Home 