Category Archives: home

Oct14

retreat

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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.

Oct11

yes….and no

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Yes, I missed an opportunity to move to my little dream house. I didn’t even inquire about it. Don’t know what I was waiting for…the owner to call me? To run into someone in the local grocery store and have them introduce us and strike up a random conversation and be invited over….no. Although stranger things have happened. To me. What I was waiting for was the shame to pass. The shame of daring to dream.

No, I didn’t have the cash to plunk down. No, I hadn’t listed my house on the market or looked into being pre-qualified for a mortgage. Hadn’t done any of that. Just sat here hoping that it would still be on the market when I got around to being ready. Not much is moving here in the local real estate market, but I knew intuitively that house wouldn’t last long. It was for sale by owner and probably under priced to sell quickly, which it did. Inquiring would have forced me to learn where I stood financially. I would have found out what my house was worth, what terms might be available, or that it wasn’t doable at all. I don’t know any of that now. I’m kinda in real estate limbo.

The two people I shared my disappointment with said, “oh well, it wasn’t the right house for you. Something else will come along when you’re ready.” Yes, I’ve taken the loss personally. I take everything personally. Let me walk you through that; it will help you understand the neurodiverse people in your life. First of all, no one who really knows me would ever say that to me. I’ve changed so much in the nine years I’ve lived here that the same criteria for house hunting no longer apply. I’ve changed so much…I would no more buy this house now than re-marry my ex. They are both strangers to me. Once madly in love and intimately related, we no longer have anything in common.

But I never would have called about this house ten years ago, also listed for sale by owner. It was way over my price range. My son called the owner of this house and he encouraged me to come look at it. He was flipping it, and out of money. It had two flat areas of lawn immediately outside the doors, as I said in yesterday’s post, for my sweet short-legged old dogs. It would do. And it had lots of potential – a mistake I will never make again. I’m not moving into anything that isn’t ready for paint and wallpaper.

Yes, I am whining. Feeling sorry for myself. This house will never be finished, short of a hundred thousand dollar lottery windfall – and then I wouldn’t bother. And H O M E is waaaay more important to me than most anyone can understand. It’s the reason I started this blog in 2012. A Painterly Home was never intended to be about my psychological interior. And yet, here we are.

Home, any home…like me, is a work in progress. A home is never really done. But I want to be doing the decorative stuff, not replacing the roof and fixing things. Just constantly fixing things. Yesterday I turned on the kitchen faucet and it fell off, spewing water everywhere. Things like that happen almost daily here. But, hey…I have a new roof over my head. Literally. And yes, I am grateful beyond measure.

Yes, I’m good here for now. Yes, I’m sorry I didn’t at least try to purchase the little cottage on Mill Street and begin again. Who knows what I might have learned. No, I’m not giving up. I will never give up on my dreams!

“A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.” – John Barrymore

Yes, I will continue to dream until I’m living in a little cottage. The kitchen sink is under a window facing east – YES! – I am that picky. But it’s actually about lifestyle, and easier maintenance. And creativity and…J O Y. I’m currently on almost an acre of land and most of it is hilly. Hard to mow. And I’d like to be in a town or village. Walkable. Less isolated. I’d love to have some neighbors. This house has served me well; it was the right place at the right time. But life has changed. I’ve changed. We’re supposed to.

I don’t want to compromise my dreams. They can morph; I hope they will…but not become more obscured. I want them to become ever more specific. Otherwise, nothing happens. See, I think that is bullshit that tells us to “let go.” Sure, change and evolve and constantly update your dreams…but never let them go.

“And then I kissed my fear on it’s crooked mouth and whispered farewell old friend, I’m off to meet The Odds and I hear they may favor me without you.” – JK Kennedy

Sep7

’til there was you

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“It was love and I lived in it. And it is grief, and I will carry it.” – Chloe Frayne

No secret to anyone I’ve been in a funk lately. A funky funk. Ugly cry at the least mention of a name or the sight of a dog or cat. Not good company. But I am blessed with friends who simply don’t care how surly or snarky or blubbery I am on any given day. Imagine that. I call them spiritually generous, and I have to confess that I am not so magnanimous. I come up against my own myopic self importance daily. It never ceases to shock and appall.

All this amounts to the only logical explanation: I am melting. I’m like the wicked witch of the west and life doused me with a bucket of water. Unlike the witch, I am melting slowly…taking my sweet time. The “I” I thought I knew so well is disintegrating. And as Anne LaMott so wisely quipped: everything I let go of has claw marks.

One of my generous friends had invited me to a lovely event last week and I cancelled at the last minute, after she’d bought tickets. I had a migraine. Those are coming to the surface again lately as I melt. How did she respond? Well, she asked if she could take me out to brunch later in the week. Those kind of friends. Her voice has never once hinted “what an ass.” Not that her year has been a walk in the park either.

So yesterday we met at a restaurant halfway between us. In she walks with a gift bag, bright tissue paper peeping out the top. A box of new watercolors. Encouragement. Hope. She believes in me. She is the embodiment of grace and I can’t help but wonder what I did to deserve her…must have been good to her in a past life…aka parallel timeline.

We hadn’t seen each other since our road trip to Detroit earlier in the summer. The one where I had her as a captive audience in my speeding car for hours and saw fit to lambast her with my latest attack of trauma-induced rage. Talk about stuck in self pity; I’m the gold standard. And yet, in she walks for whatever comes up, glutton for punishment. Mind you, it was a small public place. Much safer bet on her part. And it wasn’t that I was in a much better headspace these months later. Nope. Still stuck. Still depressed. Still waiting on divine intervention to pull me out of the muckety-muck.

She showed up anyway. I had mentioned this meeting to another friend on the phone early that morning, moaning about how broke I am that I shouldn’t be going out anywhere; I shouldn’t even be spending the gas to get there. Only to discover later that she had sent me brunch money via Paypal. She did say, “you need to get out of the house. Go!” A third friend who I had also cancelled on last week asked me: “What does support look like for you right now?” She wouldn’t have liked my first thought. It was very whiney. Why does anyone even like me?!

My God I am blessed to have these extraordinary women in my life.

And something did shift yesterday morning at breakfast. First of all, the 20 minute drive itself was transformative. It had rained all week, humidity contributing to the headaches. But Saturday was a glorious, sunny morning. I was almost pain free. The M22 drive was through dense green hills, along the Lake Michigan shoreline with shy glimpses of towering dunes off in the distance. Alone, quiet…as if it were all being presented for me. Who could be sad?

My friend has been going through a difficult time, too…don’t think I know anyone who isn’t, actually. She just went through applying for government assistance to clean up her flood damage. Last year a violent hail storm destroyed her homes’ siding and roof. We all seem to be melting, physically and metaphorically. And I asked her point blank, “how do you stay so hopeful? Gracious? How do you do it?” We laughed and we cried over our avocado toast. We got some sideway glances from the waitress. Can’t tell me she’s having an easy time of it. Maybe she was hoping she’d overhear a snippet of wisdom from the two grey hairs at table 6. Good luck, darlin’.

But I am here to tell you something I realized just then – right there in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, nobody that I am. I wouldn’t trade any of this for the world…

Tearing up again, I said to my friend: “For some reason I may never come to understand, I feel as if a thousand million possible timelines all converged at the moment of my birth and somehow I chose exactly the right one.”

She and I will often talk about houses. We love houses, architecture, design. Occasionally we accompany each other to view some new fantasy cottage dream we saw on a real estate site. We are constantly perusing all the listings and “fiz-bo’s” – for sale by owners, hoping to discover some great deal everyone else missed. Hey – it happens. I’ve bought them. Maybe you have. But we finally admitted something to ourselves yesterday: we have spent our lives looking for a place to belong.

Because nothing has ever compared to the home and family we each grew up in. As privileged and magical and fantastic and horrible and hearbreaking and inspiring as it was all at the same time. I admit that I don’t know how to reconcile that. Something waits back there, before I was aware enough to decipher it’s code…something necessary to move forward. Something precious. Something that made me me, and made you you. And I got it, right there that very second. Given the opportunity to do it all differently – I wouldn’t.

Aug16

the language of the heart

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Shortly after moving from the suburbs of Detroit to Traverse City back in the 1980’s, I became friends with a man named Prof Mondol. Prof wrote a novel titled Operation Tibet. It’s based on his service as a fighter pilot in WWII, having served with the Royal Indian Air Force. Published in 1979, I still have the copy he signed and gifted me. He was such a wise man. I regarded him as an unofficial spiritual teacher of sorts and held him in the utmost respect.

Due to fly somewhere on business, I offered to drive him to Detroit Metro Airport one weekend. It was an opportunity to talk for hours, and I could also take my young son to visit his father in Midland along the way. That trip would prove quite enlightening on several levels, although not in any way I could have expected.

After introducing Prof while dropping my son off, my former husband asked if he could speak to me privately for a minute. We walked down his long driveway off M20 just west of Midland. He was very direct with this statement that if I ever dared to expose his son to a black person again (Prof was a native of India), he would see to it that I never saw my son again. Specifically he explained in detail how he would have drugs planted in my car and ensure that I spent my life in prison. “Are we clear on this? Do you understand me?!” he bellowed in a whisper. Ha! As if I could be anything but clear about who I had divorced years prior. While also perfectly clear about being responsible for who I had married…and why he felt so familiar. Ass-holes are familiar to me.

I did not know that day that Prof was dying of cancer, and that trip would be the last time I would spend with him. I did not know what a gift it was. I still remember our conversation, and I have just thought of it again. Triggered recently, of course, by a family member reminding me how different we are; how I have always been, and will always be, an outsider in my family of origin. Because Prof asked me a question that day that would subconsciously affect my entire adult life: “do you believe that God created the universe – or is creating the universe?”

“Creating,” I replied without hesitation. It was an intuitive response. Immediate. From the depths of my being.

For reasons I may never comprehend, road trips seem to provide some precious insights for me. Don’t know what it is about setting a block of time aside and getting away from the house; maybe it’s the open highway…maybe it’s just making myself available to drive for people I love. My natural tendency is to stay home. I really don’t like to leave the house, and often don’t for long periods of time. To say home is sanctuary for me is a gross understatement. Home is renewal; home is life.

Sitting still does not even remotely mean I am not experiencing constant change. I guess I am living an internal life. Nature visits me at my door. The world quite literally revolves around me; I remain still at the center. You might be surprised to know that no two days are ever the same from my chair here in the corner.

But returning home recently I found myself on a detour. Road construction in Michigan happens in summer, when the weather allows. I would be passing so near to my family cemetery that it seemed disrespectful not to stop. And so I did, for the first time in years. It made me feel acutely sad. The grave sites of my parents and brother, among those of multiple generations of ancestors, were overgrown. Rocks were strewn willy-nilly. My parents graves had a headstone; my brothers did not. Later that week I was talking to my sister and mentioned this. She is the only member of my family I have much contact with at all, and then it is infrequent. We live 10 hours drive apart.

A couple of days later she asked if I would be willing to place grave markers if she were to purchase them. I agreed. She researched online and asked if she could ship them directly to me. I agreed. Within another day or so I was informed that the two grave markers had been ordered and were being shipped to her. And that she had enlisted her son, my nephew, to drive up with the markers and meet with the township for placement. He would be overseeing the project and I would be notified when it was done.

It isn’t that I mind being dismissed. Certainly not in this instance. It did startle me for a moment. And reminded me that it has always been this way in my family. I might be temporarily enlisted to participate. But then they will think better of it. As in, better not trust this to Susan. Better not let Susan make a decision. Better to handle it without Susan and then inform her. It’s been this way as long as I can remember. I am a member of the family…but just barely. They scoot over at the last minute and give me a seat on the bench. I’m an adjunct member. By default. By default that we had the same two parents, that is. But I am certainly not an equal.

And in this specific instance, the truth is that I don’t much understand or value the physical need to visit the remains of dead loved ones. They aren’t there. Although it has been documented that all wild animals in nature pause when passing over ground with remains below. It is known that elephants will spend some time stopping on their migrations pausing over long buried remains far under the ground. And they will spend almost twice as long IF those remains are of their own herd.

Which brings me full circle to what this essay is about (finally, eh?) How do the elephants know? What is the built in telepathic sense that all life on earth seems to possess? Why don’t humans understand, acknowledge and value it? What is this telepathy inherent in nature?

For lack of a better word, some would call it psychic. We are psychic beings. Acknowledged or not, we are all living a psychic life. Everything is psychic. God is psychic. You learned “all-knowing.” Same thing: interconnected.

So how am I depressed? Why am I so debilitated by grief? What is death? How can I reconcile the injustice of the world I live in? What is this perceived divide in reality?

We humans seem to have made such a clusterfuck of this ark we were entrusted with. We don’t even know we were placed here. We are in a panic that we will miss our purpose. We’ve been allocated to adjunct caretakers. Our seat on the bench is dwindling. Our time for being trusted has come and gone, and we don’t even know what is happening here.

But I do understand it. My cells get it. My psychic field, my spirit, knows. We are all part of the same God. We are infinitely intelligent. God isn’t done. The universe wasn’t created. It is becoming. We are becoming.

Jun28

healing is as healing does

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4:10 PM; Saturday, June 27th. I’ve just awakened from a much needed nap. A couple of hours ago I took Tylenol and magnesium tincture and laid down with my feet elevated. I’m sore. I’ve been pushing all week to catch up on the yard work, which I’m about a month behind on. It’s daunting, much like the snow in winter. It needs to be tackled almost daily to stay on top of it.

I’ve divided my lawn into 5 sections. Each section is approximately the size of your yard if you’re a normal person. Which is to say, if you live in a town or suburb where you have a front yard that extends out about 20 feet to the street, and a back yard that extends out to meet your neighbor’s fence. This is not that.

This property is almost an acre – and it is the smallest property in this rural area. Three sides of it is on a 30 to 45 degree angle – all lawn. Who thought that was a good idea?! I always thought I would plant the hillsides with ground cover. Or lavender. The budget has never existed for that.

So, I can only mow one section of my yard on any given day due to the fact that I am old and decrepit. And trimming along the fence and the flower beds with the string trimmer is another day for each section. So 10 days to catch up. I’m six days in and if I live another 4 days I will keep you posted.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (this is a mid-century modern ranch), I’m thinking it may be time to move to something more easily maintained. Maybe I’ve got one more move in me. I’ll also keep you posted about this process. I am one of the many aging seniors who are house rich and cash poor. I don’t know if I can afford to move. I do know that I can no longer afford to pay a lawn service. Hence, the new diet and exercise program: eat less and mow more. Because, if you know me at all, I am the kinda gal who willfully turns adversity into advantage. Go team.

At this moment in time, I am tentatively beginning to love my life again. It was a long, dark winter. It was, quite literally, a dark and stormy night. It just happened to last six months. But sunlight and warmth and nature are true healers, and today I sit here looking out over the rolling hills and treetops through dappled sunlight and feel like I won the lottery. I feel like I can breathe again.

I miss my dogs, who I originally bought this house for. I miss the friends I’ve lost. I miss my family. I miss my cat. I’ve begun to consider that I might adopt again. I miss the joy they fill the house with. Maybe I could open my heart once more. I also miss all the many lives I’ve already lived in this lifetime. I’m not the same person anymore. But here’s the thing about unhappiness: after a while it stops being interesting.

Mar19

the house hold

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It has always and only ever been about the house for me. This house. All the previous houses. The house I grew up in. I have spent the majority of my lifetime writing about home. My bookshelves are full of books about home. My favorite novels include The Dutch House by Ann Patchett, and favorite memoirs include House Lessons by Erica Bauermeister. They talked to their house. I talk to my house.

Most of the most memorable movie scenes for me center around the house. P.L Travers returns to her London townhouse after exhaustive negotiations with Walt Disney, comes in and says, “Hello, House…” She sold Mary Poppins for one reason and one reason only: she didn’t want to lose her house.

At this moment I am completely snowed in. To leave my house I would have to push through heavy waist deep snow drifts and climb over a mountain of snow and ice, well over my head, down to the road. Then I would have to have someone else pick me up. My car is buried at the top of that hill. I’m not going anywhere. Thank goodness the power is back on and the freezer is full.

Once the storm abated – meaning the gale-force winds died down to 45 mph and the constant snow became lake effect rather than system, my neighbors began contacting me. They don’t live here; these are vacation homes now. Ice and heavy wet snow had obscured their views from outdoor security cameras. They didn’t know what things looked like here. How many trees were down? I sent what photos I could take from inside my house. My doors won’t open.

Not only have I never owned a second home, I have never wanted to. In fact I can’t imagine it. I read recently that the wealthiest Americans own a home in each of the 50 states. They own the company that manages those homes. They own the planes that might fly them to those homes. I’m sure there is a reason for this, likely a tax reason.

Decades ago my brother-in-law Bob started the first taxi cab company in Traverse City. My former husband, son, and I drove taxi from time to time as needed. We picked up people from private jets and delivered their children to private schools and to hidden estates in outlying properties all over this area, stopping several times to let their assistants buy supplies. I know all the disguises famous people use to be incognito. Even as a kid, in private school in the Detroit suburbs, I had friends with family “up north” at the private art school Interlochen. I knew their famous parents. Fame never appealed to me, in fact it seems like a terrible life sentence. I can only have compassion for them despite their wealth. As far as I’m concerned, it wouldn’t begin to serve as adequate compensation for needing a disguise in public. Let alone constant protection.

Only now I am realizing that there is some deeper awareness here for me to glean. To worry how your “other house” has fared a storm…it boggles my mind. I wish you could see what I see at this very moment. I’m sitting at the desk in my bedroom writing this. I face a window which has a hawthorn tree outside it, planted decades ago a little too close to the house. Right now the tree is full of robins. Full. Two dozen? I’m talking to them. They are all sitting on this side of the tree, amongst the berry-laden branches, facing me. I am their student. One just flew to the window, fluttering it’s wings an inch from the glass. It was saying, “We see you. Do you see us?” How beautiful. My heart opens.

On the edge of the desk next to the window are three small houseplants. An asparagus fern, which seems to especially enjoy the spot above the radiator, a spotted dieffenbachia and an African violet. They delight me. No houseplants in an extra house, unless you employ a caretaker. No soul. No infusion of day-to-day, of frustration and grief and resolution. No beloveds bones buried in the yard. You might experience spring in a second house, but not every day of it. No two days are the same here.

My soul is so attached. I’m attached to my house and to every little thing inside and out. I’m attached to my place, to the land, to the sky here, to the smells and the sounds, to the light and the shadows, to being who I am here, now. So very attached. Some may say this is unhealthy. Talk amongst yourselves. I don’t care.

Could I leave? Of course; I imagine I will, perhaps even soon. I’ve moved more times than average, all my life. But I take my life with me to each new house and I make a new life, a new place. I’m embedded. Somehow, it’s always about the house. It’s another relationship to me, to be nurtured and treasured.

I’m not sure what that means…but I am fascinated with this, and always willing to explore it. To explore my attachments. I imagine many – perhaps most – people have other priorities – career, passions, climate preferences – that dictate where they live. My priority is the house. Proximity to the people and things I love, sure – but I will forgive a lot of preferences for the right house. It makes all the difference.

It seems as though no one I’ve lived with gets this. My Mother did, and I’m sure that is where my attachment comes from. And her Mother. They made beautiful homes. But no one since has had any conscious awareness of the true value of a home. Home: as shelter, as sanctuary, as healer, as family member. Alive. Functioning. Home.

Oh, I don’t doubt that they get it subconsciously. But you can’t convince anyone of the importance of something subconscious. It becomes a power struggle. I have lived most of my adult life in a power struggle, attempting to prove my worth as well as why I cared about our home. I’ve stayed far too long where I was disrespected precisely because I didn’t want to leave my beautiful home. I’m done with that now. I’m done trying to convince anyone of anything. As the meme says, “Explaining myself is too much work. Just judge me.”

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…