Category Archives: home

Oct19

we live here…

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Bitch, please…I grew up in Detroit. For those of you who are not familiar, or accept the cultural collective’s jokes and voodoo euphemisms of Detroit, you’re missing out. Detroit is the heart and soul of America. It is fu@king awesome. Go. Stay in the New Center area and spend a couple days at the Detroit Institute of Arts. Drive around and take in some of the most spectacular historical architecture in the United States. You won’t see it all in that time, but enough to enjoy yourself enormously and appreciate it’s beauty and world-class culture.

Then take yourself “up north.” This is where I have lived the past 40 years. Let me tell you a bit about how I came here, and why I stay.

My father grew up on a farm outside of Traverse City, where my Irish ancestors had immigrated and settled during the potato famine. About to enter high school, his father moved the family to Detroit during the automobile boom. And so I grew up in the suburbs of Detroit and often visited my great-grandparents and aunts and uncles on Long Lake, west of Traverse City, in the summer months. By the time I was in my early twenties I would spend as much time as possible here, staying with my great Aunt Edith, my grandfather’s sister, in the old farmhouse out on Cedar Run Road. My young son had baths in the big iron sink after I pumped water from the well and heated it – on the stove I’d built a fire in. I would put on one of my great grandmother’s old house dresses, crank up the Victrola, and dance around the living room…romantically imagining I lived in a simpler time…way back when. Until Aunt Edith became impatient with my immature fantasies and reminded me that we had no trash pick up or mail delivery – and I needed to get my arse in gear. Those errands were not going to do themselves.

I have about a million and thirty stories I could tell that depend on the geography of both places, and all around the Great Lakes. There is nowhere else like Michigan on earth. And while it is great, not all of my childhood was great. I came from a big dysfunctional family that often settled differences with fist fights and spent years stubbornly not speaking to one another, depending on the current offensive issue. This blog is full of many – by no means all, of those stories, from day one, back in 2012. That was when I began to write as though my life depended on it, not knowing how true that was.

The move from Detroit to Traverse City was purposefully to get my child away from my family, and their drug and alcohol-induced violence. To be safe. To start over. It was the naive plan of a young woman suffering from PTSD, not yet aware of her ADHD, her mental and emotional limitations. It didn’t work. Not only did I not escape my own demons, but my family members were inspired by my new life and followed me. Over the course of the next few years they all moved north, too.

We live here now. Now I actually live about 50 miles west of Traverse, near the shore of Lake Michigan. My son grew up here. We have both traveled some; enough to know this is home. But home has come to mean an internal space for me as I age. It’s funny, the name of this blog…a painterly home. I thought it would be about interior design. Little did I know it would be about interior design – as in, my spiritual interior. There are so many more stories to unpack and share. I’m grateful beyond words for this journal and your readership. It continues to save my life on a weekly basis.

Today I am grieving as my sweet familiar, Chewy, is dying. I’m not ready to lose him. Many of you know that I had two elderly dogs I cherished when Chewbacca the cat came to live with us. I was asked if I could please help out a friend and foster him for a couple of months about 8 years ago. What a blessing he has been. He fit right in with the dogs, becoming immediately inseparable from my little beagle, Odie. I’ve written other posts about them, of course (see Sept. 9, 2025, Chew de Monk). I never would have chosen these silly names for these magnificent beings. But they were already displaced and going through enough adjustment to impose any others unnecessarily. For starters, Chewy became known as a catdog. He did not know that he wasn’t a dog. Since we lost Odie in 2020, Chewy has seldom left my side. Like the dogs, he feels it is his duty to be constantly underfoot. He follows me from room to room. He insists on touching while we sleep, just as he did with Odie; he extends one of his back legs and pushes it against my thigh. I will aver that he understands English perfectly. All of it. Only an hour or so ago I mentioned out loud that I would give him a bit more liquid and medicine in the syringe again, hoping he can rally. He begrudgingly pulled himself up and walked the few steps to his water fountain and took the first drink he has had in two or three days.

Yesterday doesn’t count. We spent the day at the emergency clinic while he got IV liquids, a warm enema, pain and diabetes meds, in an attempt to save him. We came home last night exhausted. He has barely moved and still isn’t eating. I haven’t given up. I keep telling him that I won’t ever give up on him, and that if he can pull through this I will do everything in my power to improve the quality of his life. I’ve promised new toys. I also told him that if he is too tired he is free to go. I will miss him every day for the rest of my life, and I will remember daily all the joy he brought. Rejoice at the thought of he and Odie together again. Still in a magnificently beautiful place, with all the loves that I don’t know how to live without.

Sep21

until now

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“Enough is abundance to the wise.” – Euripedes

Do you have enough? That is a different computation for each individual; surely we know this much. I am struggling financially in the later years of my life, now moreso than ever. My friends are concerned and petition me to sell my house, invest that equity for some security in the event, or inevitability, of illness. Of the need for long term care. And no, I am not showing signs of dementia – not yet, anyway! My recent doctor’s exam revealed that I am much stronger than most women my age. I’ll take it. I’ve slowed down, and once you do that it’s difficult to get back to your previous pace. I’ve come to terms with that, as I have with my financial limitations.

In a recent post I talked about denial, but I don’t believe that is this. I think, I meditate, I read and study upon my circumstances; I cannot muster a sense of poverty. The bank account, the numbers, say I’m poor by whatever standards economists measure. I don’t feel poor. In fact, quite the opposite. I feel abundant, blessed, overwhelmingly grateful. My body does not seem to harbor any fear. At least not at this time. That could change, certainly…let’s not plan for it. Let’s not project fear, or False Evidence Appearing Real. Let’s not make shit up.

Just this week I heard Elizabeth Gilbert quote an acronym I’m adopting as my new motto: PAUSE: Perhaps An Unseen Solution Exists. Or as the Mad Hatter (or was it Alice?) would advise: always leave room for magic. Carolyn Myss, one of the most respected Christian mystics of our time, would say: always leave room for God. This attitude toward life has been serving me well thus far for over 70 years now. Maybe there is something to it.

Would I like more? You betcha I would. More money to live on and share, more security, less stress. More room to paint and more paints. More flowers in the yard….”more.” “Of what, Eeyore?” asked Pooh. “Everything…” But do I have enough? I do, indeed.

Am I willing to give up my peace of mind and embrace fear? Nah. It’s not my style. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, this morning I found this to share with you. A beautiful artist and writer walks us through her home, built for “every open soul that finds it’s way here.” This 12 minute video has so motivated me. I’m up on the step ladder, singing to the music playing, painting my living room and rearranging all the furniture this weekend, while soup simmers on the stove. It is making me so darn happy. My home, my sanctuary, my altar, my endless source of beauty and inspiration.

May our open souls always find their way, regardless of our circumstances. May we always know we are loved. And may we always know we have enough. Thank you for being here.

Sep3

home is a many-layered thing…

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First journal? Scrapbook? We were kids when we started, eh? With a diary in grade school. So, for me that was the 1950’s. Although I was drawing as soon as I could hold a pencil (per my mother), magazine tear sheets wouldn’t come into being until I was in high school in the 60’s. But once I discovered magazines a whole new world opened up, quite literally. The world became a much smaller place once it was delivered to the mailbox.

It began with Seventeen. Barbie grew up and dressed in Betsy Johnson. But it wasn’t long before art and shelter magazines like Metamorphosis and Architectural Digest and Rolling Stone broadened my horizons. And then The Sun.

Suddenly my life was too small. I couldn’t wait to leave the boring suburbs for real life in the city. Little did I know…I wouldn’t get too far too fast, probably a good thing. Family kept me close and I set aside the acceptance letters to RISD and Parsons and New York School of Design for Wayne State and Center for Creative Studies, known then as Arts and Crafts. It was across the street from the fabulous and inspiring DIA, to this day one of the best art museums in the country. It was my familiar stomping ground as I would often skip high school (I still got A’s & B’s) to spend the day roaming the galleries, dreaming and sketching. Other days you’d find me on the 13th floor of the J.L. Hudson Company, moving from vignette to vignette in the furniture and design department, imagining what I would do with that room.

It had never occurred to me that I would be anything but an artist or a writer. It wasn’t what I did; it was who I was. Fast forward five+ decades and I look back, longingly some days. At the life I sidestepped somehow, too young married and mothering and clambering for survival. The demons were lurking in the shadows, fighting amongst themselves for attention. They were not to be ignored. In retrospect, I wouldn’t trade any of it – but that realization happened just the other day. It’s a process, like me. I’ll have to keep you posted as to when I solidify.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (has that euphemism become old?!) some things have not changed much. I’m still obsessed with art and music and design. As I said, it is who I am. I was born this way. That’s why I keep insisting that you cannot miss your purpose. You don’t need to search for it; God hardwired it in. You can miss the option of different vocations – but your purpose is not a job. It’s who you are. It’s your calling. And spirit – your spirit – will nudge you toward happiness and fulfillment ceaselessly. Every day every day every day. You will realize yourself one way or another, sooner or later. And you will relax into being. You are whole. And holy. Right here, right now. Try to enjoy yourself already.

Sep1

summer camp for adults

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I’ve watched this real estate video more times than I can count. It’s been on YT for over 6 years now, and I return to it every so often, just to get re-inspired.

Deep down inside, don’t we all want to live at “summer camp for adults?” Where the living is slow and easy. I’ve only been to Nantucket once. I instantly felt completely at home, as though I’d always been there. One night waiting to eat dinner at a bar, I met a young woman resident who made her living as a decorative painter. It’s a good thing a table became available quickly – I was just about to ask her for a job…never to return to America, as the locals call the mainland. I could just as easily have stayed and never looked back.

That is where all of my fantasy novels start. As a child the books I wrote (literally, on folded used paper that I sewed together) were all about horses and farms and life at the lake and solving mysteries. But all of the novels I’ve written as an adult still remain in my head. And they all begin with a woman disappearing from her life and beginning anew in a strange place. Like Anne Tyler’s Breathing Lessons, or Silvio Soldoni”s Bread and Tulips, the protagonist woman has become invisible to her family and friends. It’s depicted perfectly in the series The Marlow Murder Club, but this time Becks Starling finds a new life when she discovers a new calling as a sleuth.

New calling or new location, every woman who has ever been responsible to and for anyone else- in other words, every woman – soon discovers that she is invisible to those she cares for. Innocently most of the time, they have slipped into being dependent on her. The more responsibility she handles, the more responsibility they lay at her feet. She becomes the invisible cog that keeps the machine running smoothly. And she begins to fantasize about a different life, one where she is free...

Believe me, I’ve planned my escape to the nth degree. I’d be far less happenstance about it than any fictional character. No one would ever find me. I know myself just well enough to know how to disappear from here and reappear elsewhere unrecognizable.

But here’s a big clue: as far as location is concerned, I’m right at home where I am living now. A small village on the west coast of Michigan is as close to the NE coast of the country as I’m likely to get in this life. And other than those 2 places, I might feel at home in Great Britain or Ireland. Give me vast deep water, a cold, damp climate and pine trees. You can have the rest of the planet.

And to further dispel any mystery about me: my dream life is single and my dream home is shingled. An old Cape with wide pine floorboards. Collections of dishes and colorful artwork. I entertain friends and family at Sunday brunch while the dog and cat sleep on the hearth. As I’ve always been fascinated with architecture and the fine art of interior design, there are inspirational stacks of design books in every room for spontaneous perusal. And I almost forgot – every bathroom has a window, for Heaven’s sake! Who thought it was okay to omit windows from bathrooms?! Same plonker who thinks open floor plans are acceptable for humans, maybe. One more detail: there will always be rock and roll. Okay, that’s it for today. Carry on…

Aug24

the reframing

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“Enough is abundance to the wise.” – Euripides

Money has been tight for too long. We’re starting to atrophy over here. Not just physically (the house is falling apart,) but spiritually. Horse and cart issues…so, back to the old drawing board as the saying goes. As I want to practice living curiously, I am exploring what appears to be my poverty. It brings up paralyzing fear, especially in tandem with age and health issues. Talk about scary, wow. As I said to my physician recently: “if you are likely to become old and poor at the same time, you’d better hope you are smart.” I am certainly not alone in this conundrum. Family and friends are all coming to terms with it. It’s a reality of our time and culture now; the elimination of the middle class is almost complete. And make no mistake, the poor will not be welcomed here.

A conversation has opened among us about the shame we are feeling. Because this feels like failure. HOW did I get here? This was not the plan. And it is not for lack of working hard, or giving life and my relationships everything I possibly had to give. I want to be generous and kind; I have never wanted to give up on anyone, no matter how damaged or dysfunctional. While I’ve grown to understand it was not meant to work as I was taught to believe, I appreciate that I had to learn to be selfish. It did not come naturally. I was my codependent Mother’s child, after all. The repressed shame that came with her poverty would eventually kill her – but I loved every molecule of her just the way she was. As she used to say to me, “we’re alright, Sue – the world’s all wrong.”

And so, I will face my shame monster, look her dead in the eye, and open my heart to her. I will give her a seat at the table. We will keep the conversation going as long as need be. Meanwhile, these conversations serve to remind me that money does not define me. There is no denial here – no pretending it wouldn’t help. But my difficulties will never define me. And certainly not the difficulties of someone else’s invention.

“I decided that the most subversive, revolutionary thing I could do was to show up for my life and not be ashamed.” – Anne Lamott

What is wealth, really? What is it for? What would you do with it? What is luxury? Isn’t it all relative? As I age, I am beginning to redefine priorities that I once accepted as given. They aren’t given – they are taught. Now I question everything, and if I accept it as part of me, I accept it unconditionally.

As but one example, throughout my life many have suggested that my obsession with interior design is superficial. Oh, but it isn’t at all. It’s an art form, a genre. Your home is your altar, your inner sanctum; meant to be revered. Done as an honest expression of your spirit, it nourishes health and well being on every level.

I’m particularly drawn to the homes of artists. They are messy, like life is messy. And if you know where to look, and more importantly, how to look – homes are remarkably rich with the beauty of life. They are an endless source of color and inspiration. I used to joke that I am so grateful to have been born in the time of shelter magazines. And many magazines are now online. What a magnificent and endless resource we have at our fingertips.

And here I am, reminded that I would actually rather sit in my comfortable home and watch videos than suffer the hassle that travel has become. It seldom interests me anymore. I love my age. I love the times I live in. I love my life. It doesn’t require money to be healthy and happy. It requires attention.

“Ninety percent of success is showing up and smelling good.” – Cary Grant

Aug21

bugger

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“People without a sense of humor will never forgive you for being funny.” – Joyce, The Thursday Murder Club

In my fantasy life I host a writer’s group once a month. Or maybe we pretend to be a book group or a writer’s group but we really solve murders. We gather around my gorgeous little antique dining table in the upholstered rattan chairs and talk and ponder all afternoon. We have tea, coffee, perhaps a sip of prosecco. We open little party gifts we’ve made or collected for each other, and we eat cucumber sandwiches and scones with lots of cream…someone falls asleep out on the veranda in the chaise lounge. It’s just a little nap. Some drooling might occur, but no one will hold it against you.

They love coming to my home, because, well, let’s face it – I know how to entertain. And put together a list of suspects. No one leaves hungry, and everyone leaves excited and hopeful and full of new ideas. It will be hard to sleep tonight.

In my actual life, a dear friend is moving into a new apartment in a retirement community, as did another friend not long ago. I’m experiencing pangs of jealousy. First of all, I love being old. Helen Mirren said “the best part of being over 70 is being over 70.” So hanging out with peers is ever so appealing. Young people just don’t get it. I want no-holds-barred brutally honest communication – and I also want to be home in my pajamas by 8.

All of my adult life I’ve wanted for nothing more than a big, raucous house full of family and friends. Kids and grandkids, constant coming and going. Music playing and spontaneous dancing and laughter and laughter and laughter. And a private office off my bedroom with a door that locks when “I vant to be left alone.“

That was my childhood home, and I spent the last 50 years of my life trying to recreate it. But it wasn’t real. It was a sham. My childhood home was also hiding terrible neglect and abuse and dysfunction. The big loud happy home was just for show. My parents wanted the happy home, too; they also didn’t know how to make it happen. They didn’t know how to face the addiction demons. Neither was I going to be able to create the life I wanted; I had not a clue how to go about it. And so shame tends to creep into my dreams and cloud my sleep. When I wake I feel entirely like a failure. Where did I go wrong?

That’s where the deep sense of failure stems from: I’m smart…but not smart enough to have figured this out when I was younger. To have stopped trying to please everyone else and keep everyone else safe; to have known that survival mode will never get you where you want to go. I was slow to understand that love is not transactional, nor negotiable. I wasn’t just quite smart enough to know that we really cannot earn our way to health and happiness…to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that I AM already everything I could possibly dream. My loyalty and devotion were misplaced outside myself.

And now I have lived long enough to know the privilege of looking myself in the mirror and asking, “IS that what you really wanted? Or perhaps, is there something far more valuable to be gleaned here?” And now I can let myself fall apart at the seems. I grieve the life I spent trying to fulfill a fantasy that, in fact, I would not choose now. Now that I belong to myself.

“Hope is a renewable option: If you run out of it, at the end of the day, you get to start over in the morning.” – Barbara Kingsolver

Aug15

“you’re messy & you talk too much…”

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Terribly neglected, Catlips woke me at 4:30. His bowl was empty. I gave him a quick little spit of his soft food, hit the loo, and headed back to bed. His highness let me sleep until after nine. That felt luxurious. I love waking naturally when my body has decided it is done dreaming for the night. That is one of the greatest pleasures of no longer getting up for work every morning, and I do not take it for granted.

Another of life’s greatest pleasures is coffee. Admittedly, I am an addict. I began drinking coffee around the age of 4 or 5, when I would beg my parents to share this magic elixir. Watered down with lots of cream and sugar I suppose, I was immediately hooked. Anyone who knows me knows that I wish everything tasted like strong coffee…maybe with some milk, hold the sugar. As I used to order it, “blonde and bitter – like me.” Since my hair is white now I can no longer get away with that.

But lately, ill with pancreatitis after passing gallstones, I have not been able to enjoy coffee. I haven’t been able to enjoy much actually. This morning I am feeling better and I am having a cup of coffee. The morning is sunny and cool, the cat sleepy, and life is good. Splendid, in fact.

And I am going to enjoy my coffee while indulging in my not-so-secret guilty pleasure of watching house tours. Bed ridden and searching for entertainment this past month, I’ve been down the interior design rabbit hole. Three weeks ago one of my favorite YT channels featured a writer’s home. I love anything to do with books and writers. Enter the bestselling author, Mary Kay Andrews, “Queen of the Beach read”, as she’s known. She doesn’t drink coffee, but I guess I like her anyway.

I’ve now read 3 of her novels in the past couple of weeks. She is not a literary giant like my favorite authors, Joan Didion and Toni Morrison. But she isn’t trying to be like them; and admirably, she’s a savvy businesswoman. Her stories contain some history and mystery, yes, but are also given to include romance. Romance doesn’t interest me, but we’ll forgive her that also, shall we? They are quick, easy reads, well written and enjoyable when I’m unable to concentrate and need short increments of distraction. But her home, well…that is another story. I’m obsessed.

Now I follow her on IG also. Of course she is a thinking woman, which to my mind means politically liberal. Outspoken and so creative. She reminds me of my southern Mimi, my maternal grandmother, who had a fabulous sense of style. And also of my Mom who had a great wit, such a warm smile, and curly red hair all her life. Mary Kay Andrews and I are the same age. Both animal lovers. Jesus wants her to have nice things. She’s been told she’s messy and she talks too much. Ditto. Let’s not even talk about our china hoarding issues. She speaks my language; we have a lot in common. And I am enchanted by her humor, taste and charm. Unbeknownst to her, she just might be my new best friend.

Find Mary Kay on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/marykayandrews/

And we both have a problem with aunts. Those darn judgey aunts…I don’t usually like commercials – but this one is hilarious!

Aug14

no more baby poop brown

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A friend was visiting and we sat, facing each other, on Mom’s Cosmic Healing Sofa to chat and draw cards. Her feet were extended, so I began to massage them out of old habit…she noticed that I had painted my toenails – a color she called “baby poop brown.” “What’s up with that color?,” wrinkling her nose at me. So I insisted she remove her socks and reveal her toes. Bright turquoise blue with glitter! Okay, I concede. Way better.

It reminded me of this house. Because I like everything about this house except the baby poop brown walls of the hallway and snug. Who thought that was a good idea?! Yes, it’s earthy. Literally – the color of dirt. But it’s dark and dingy and depressing. But then, it is also the background of the Josef Frank fabric on the headboard, so…I guess I’ll have to consider it…hmmmm. Nope.

Don’t get me wrong, I love dark walls. But not brown. Or blue. Black, green, aubergine, yes. Even grey sometimes, like in Mouse cottage, one of my long time favorites (shown below). But as background to balance strong color in fabric and artwork. Give me black walls smothered in greenery and accents of orange any day of the week. These two homes are examples for me of magical spaces. Who doesn’t want to live and work in magical space?!

While I wait impatiently for the results of Tuesday’s CT scan, I am exploring beauty and whimsical delight. I am, thankfully, feeling much better today. Maybe I just needed a good radioactive clean-out! Or a day of fasting. I used to fast one day a week (water, broth, juice) and I think I shall begin again. Give my guts the rest they so nobly deserve. After all, they have been serving me well for over 7 decades. I’d like them to last a few more.

Jun24

the temple of my belonging

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Well, it’s been Crisis Intervention 101 here again. S’always sumpin, innit? But we’re through it intact and life is calming down. And cooling down, finally. Although we are still at 98% humidity. Normal for Michigan this time of year. As we say here, we only have two seasons – winter and July. July just began a week early. The crowd of tourists are all back in town. So I avoid town. They do serve to remind me to get out and enjoy the beauty around me.

This is the draw, and I’m so close to the shore that I can see the tip-top of a 400′ sand bluff from the bottom of the driveway (above the trees). It’s about 1/4 mile to the lake as the crow flies, or a mile downhill to the beach. I love my views, downhill in 3 directions. I have one immediate neighbor to the north, but this is a weekend summer home for them. Because I don’t have many windows on the north wall, I often realize they’ve been and gone only because they set out their trash bin at the street for Monday morning, and I gladly roll it back up the drive for them. They do many nice things for me, like mowing the back 40. I may struggle financially, but I am wealthy beyond measure surrounded in this beauty.

If I’m honest, it is a constant worry that I no longer seem to have the physical strength or financial means to maintain my home or property. We are both tired and worn. So often I will look at the real estate online to see what I might find that would be easier to grow old in. But every time I become overwhelmed with sadness. I love my home; I just want to take proper care of it. I love where I live. The ashes of my sweet pups are buried in the garden, their final romping place. My elderly kitty is the mighty king of his domain and I’d love him to live out his days here. It’s quiet and peaceful and safe. And the roof has started to leak…

I’ve often wondered why home means so much to me. Other people I know seem far less attached emotionally to the place where they dwell. In my dreams I am frequently in my childhood home on the Detroit River, long expanse of lawn lined with 3-story-high willows swaying in the breeze. Hundreds of peony shrubs perfuming the air, sunrise over the river. In a surreal way I felt somehow more connected to the natural surroundings than the people I lived with. There’s more than a few therapy sessions needed to unpack that realization!

And in hindsight I confess that I stayed far too long in an abusive marriage because I didn’t want to give up my home. Home. It’s really all I have ever longed for…a home of my own. Heaven for beginners.

Jun4

petrichor and lilacs

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My son says, “It is always a Michigan June in heaven.” It’s been a chilly spring. The heat is running this morning in the first week of June. We had dramatic thunderstorms last night and it’s still raining. But I keep a window cracked so I can smell the rain soaked earth. And the lilacs are blooming.

The lilac shrub out back is half the size of the house. I suspect it was planted around the time the house was built, which was 1955. It was traditional at that time to plant lilacs next to the driveway to welcome guests. The driveway has since been moved and the lilacs have flourished. They are spectacular.

I am in bed this morning with a vase full of them on the nightstand, coffee and my laptop, writing to you. Finally, having again been chronically ill for the last few weeks. I am better, but not well. This time I cannot avoid the doctor’s argument that I need to travel to see a specialist. I can cope with pain, but my eyesight is at stake. And let’s face it – the most qualified and well intended medical professionals still don’t have much to offer. The rheumatologist recommends I take a biologic. It is a treatment for symptoms; I want a cure. I’m stubborn like that.

But this morning I lay here breathing in the smell of rain and lilacs. The well fed fat cat is trilling and rolling around upside down on the floor. My son is here making blueberry pancakes and bacon for breakfast. Don’t tell me this isn’t heaven.