Category Archives: home

Jun14

‘Caol Ait…the thin place

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When I was house hunting several years ago I had become quite discouraged. The first house I made an offer on I was over-the-moon smitten with. It really was my dream house. I didn’t get it. I offered $5K over asking price within 24 hours of it being listed. I was the second offer, and not the highest. But I was devastated. It still feels like a loss. Some days when I’m on an errand nearby I cannot resist the urge to drive past. Add house stalker to the list of my guilty pleasures.

Once I had a purchase agreement on the home I actually bought, moving toward closing, the process stalled twice. The seller was not complying with terms of my lender, or not fixing the things the inspection tagged. Again I became discouraged, so twice I threatened to call off the deal. It did motivate the seller. Each time when I became frustrated I did what I always do – asked for guidance in meditation. Both times I clearly heard: “you are being placed.” Because I was grieving the loss of the first house, I frustratingly replied to God, “whatever…”

The first neighbors I had next door were psycho neighbors from hell. I have never dealt with anyone like them in my life. They were threatening me and I was afraid in my own home. I suspect drugs were involved, but come to find out they had caused trouble with the other neighbors for years. I learned that the man I bought the house from had sued them apparently. Their dog had attacked his fiance’. The first summer I was here their cat attacked me – as in ran across the yard and flew 5 feet through the air at my face. The arm I used to block the attack required stitches and I was given a course of antibiotics.

A year or so later I received a letter from the township informing me that they had applied for a zoning variance. They wanted to open a day care facility, and a public hearing would be held at the next township meeting to decide that. There were already 4 adults, 2 teenagers and a few children living there in the small house. They regularly parked on my lawn. There was constant traffic around the clock, along with regular all night parties. Their dogs, cats, and chickens ran all over my property, including inside my gated back fence. And they often left my gates open as my yard was a shortcut for them to the side street – where 15 or 20 of their party guests would park once my lawn was full. They walked by my bedroom window all night with flash lights yelling to one another.

My daily life was untenable this way, and I concluded that I would have to move. But now my other neighbors came knocking on my door imploring me to action; they had received the same letter from the township and were in a panic. Further away and not in site, they had no idea what I was dealing with. They had endured their own altercations. That day in my living room we prepared letters to protest the zoning variance and attended the meeting en force. We took an attorney along (a family member of mine) to show we meant business. The application was denied, but I feared repercussions.

Early one morning before dawn I opened the front door to out my elderly beagle Odie. I was face-to-face with the neighbor woman immediately outside my front door, carrying a milk jug with brown liquid in it. Startled, I asked her what she was doing and she said, “killing these dandelions for you.” I said no, thank you, and asked her to leave my property, to which she narrowed her eyes and grumbled, “we were here first.” I don’t even know what that meant, but I didn’t ask. Don’t try to reason with insanity.

During this process I was meditating (when I wasn’t shaking and crying) asking for guidance. And I distinctly heard, “They are being re-placed.” I had no idea what the heck that meant either, but soon a For Sale sign went up in their front yard. I actually fell to my knees and burst into tears. No one should ever have to live like this.

Their house sold within 24 hours and $5K over asking price. That house, and the one behind me, have since been sold as holiday retreats to young families from Detroit and Chicago. Not only do I rarely see or hear anyone around me, but they are so very pleasant when they are here on the occasional weekend. They know I am keeping an eye. I will gladly take their weekend trash to set out, and they will often mow my “back 40” as a gesture of appreciation. They leave baked treats outside my door. I couldn’t want for better neighbors.

My house still needs work. In the 7 years I have been here I have done some, but not all, of the finishing work. Built in 1955 it is solid. It needs to be; it is usually buffeted by high winds off Lake Michigan. About a quarter mile inland, with wintertime glints of sun off the water, I look out from treetop level across valleys in three directions. Southeast I see pine-forested hilltops miles in the distance. Hawthorn Cottage is now a quiet little sanctuary, my very own thin place. So as it turns out, I have been placed.

Author and designer Ted Watson Kennedy has a summer home also named Hawthorne Cottage:

Jun10

a thin place

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New to me, this concept of the thin place, where the veil between heaven and earth is thin…”this is what it must be like to be in heaven,” says Sarah Louise. So, like Michigan in the spring. Surely there is no place more wonderful on earth. Misty sunrises feel like a warm blanket. Suddenly everything is lush and green and aromatic and yummy and all the birds arrive at once.

The hawthorn tree out front is blossoming and it is magnificent. It’s old swooping branches whisper to the soft grass and curtain my bedroom window. I look out through it eastward to a valley across the road. Hawthorns are considered sacred in Celtic mythology. They are purported to be the portal between worlds, where the magical creatures like leprechaun and fae travel back and forth. I haven’t seen them, but the Cedar Waxwings fill this tree each May to gorge on it’s berries, and that’s magic enough for me.

Can thin places be as close as this? Can they also be indoors, perhaps in the form of altars? I’ve always thought of my entire home as an altar. Isn’t it all sacred as it shelters my body and my life? How could it not be? I believe our homes do, in fact, provide a thin place. Alone and with our closest loved ones, we are safe here to grieve and to dream. Be it ever so humble.

“Now I become myself. It’s taken time, many years and places…” – May Sarton

Jun9

Now You Know That You Are Real

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This next week I wish to explore a new concept that I have just come across – yesterday, actually: the thin place. The thin place means a place in our environment where the veil between heaven and earth is thin. Decades ago I read a quote in an interior design book that profoundly impacted me: “Home is heaven for beginners.” I was a guest in someone else’s home at the time, long before cell phones existed. So, no camera or way to record it, I soon forgot who said it.

Around that same time I participated in a meditation retreat. Normally I hate guided meditations. My imagination needs little encouragement to take off, and by the time the person speaks I’m far off in my own world. They’ll start us down a path and seconds later suggest we are standing on a vast beach, when I’m already talking to a bird in a dense forest. Leave me alone.

But this time something remarkable happened. Tuning out the voice from across the room I continued walking further through that dense forest, and I came upon a castle. Tower and all. Big heavy door pushed aside I started up the circular stone stairway. It was lit with gemstones set in the outer wall, refracting rainbows of light to guide my way. When the meditation ended we were asked to describe what we saw. The woman nodded at me to go first, and when I described the castle, she said, “in dream or meditation work you were scouting heaven. That structure represented what you expect the afterlife to be like.” Ahhhh…yes. Yes, I do expect that. Beauty beyond my wildest imagination.

We’ve all experienced a thin place; we know how it feels, viscerally. Goosebumps and skin prickles and an otherworldly sense of wonder overwhelms us. To me, it speaks about the concept of environmental fit that contributes to self awareness. You have to be able to be present, to notice that something is happening. You have to be comfortable enough in your own skin to be just 10% more curious than scared.

Like Francois Halard, I, too was a shy and quiet child. My environment was anything but. It was constant chaos and noise and activity. I spent any and all available hours alone in my room, reading and thinking and drawing and painting and more reading and staring at things. I bonded with inanimate objects and the trees outside my window, my cat, and my own imaginings. Years later in high school when I first took LSD it would be as natural as breathing to walk through walls, to vibrate with the plants, to become the colors of the sky. I still believe it helped keep that portal open, the veil thin, and made for me a better life.

While I love the idea of heaven on earth, I’m taking it literally. I am entirely committed to living fully in my body. I’m not interested in spacing out, or fantasy, or in any way becoming less present. What if the thin place exists within us? Do we carry it always? Sometimes we happen into a place that reminds us to notice; sometimes we create that space. Any surreal experiences I’ve had (and there have been many) were solid. Not beyond my senses, but through them. They were not ethereal or “spiritual.” They did not take me to other worlds, they expanded my awareness of this one. That is The Hanged Man experience in the tarot. You know what you know, even if it is not shared. It cannot be described with the English language; we haven’t the framework.

I haven’t taken any recreational drugs since high school (and few prescribed medications if avoidable). The last time I drank too much I was 21 (I’m 70). I don’t want (or need) my state to be altered, unless it is the organic release from anxiety that allows a fuller experience of presence. Even if that means pain. I’m all in, having a look down life’s hallways…

Jun7

comfy cosy green and rosy…

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Rita Konig is second generation design royalty. She mentions getting a sofa from her Mum, as any of us might get a hand-me-down from a parent; her Mum just happens to be design icon Nina Campbell. That said, she has a talent for breaking things down for we commoners into simple elements. Comfort and function first. You won’t see anything showy or ostentatious here, but you will want to plop down with a book and maybe have a little lie down…

EVER so frustrated by the ridiculous shortage in interesting viewing material on my television, (I need 10 times more, please, producers) I gave “Selling London” a try the other night. It’s a real estate show similar to Million Dollar Mansions. You should see these places. 37.5 million pounds (about 58 million dollars) and they look like hotel lobby meets prepper bunker. I wouldn’t give you a dollar for them. Who ARE these people?! And of course, this isn’t going to be a main residence – it’s a layover apartment among many they own world-wide. Lucky for me I don’t like them.

Meanwhile, back in the countryside where the real people live, don’t be fooled by the easy, relaxed atmosphere. That hand-me-down sofa cost more than your dream car. Do you like the fabric on the bedroom walls? Yeah, you’re gonna need a second mortgage for that. As it happens, I know this because of years working in the design industry. However I have the utmost respect for those who could afford the George Jetson bunker but instead choose mis-matched fabrics and heavy cotton curtains that feel like warm blankets. People who know how to act like humans and have other priorities for their wealth. I don’t have any statistics, but designers are certainly some of the most philanthropic people in the world. They’re artists, after all. It’s a business full of empaths. If they are to be successful they are good listeners.

So, okay, I love Rita Konig. First of all, she has her priorities straight: where do you put your drink and how do you see to read? I’ve long said, if anyone is going to sit there, you need a bright lamp – at a height where it shines down over your shoulder. And somewhere to set your coffee mug. That includes sitting up in bed. As an asthmatic cat owner (don’t judge) I also move through daily life with an inhaler, a pet brush, above mentioned book, reading glasses, and a box of tissues – minimally. I am not comfortable sitting anywhere that I haven’t got at least a square foot of clear table surface immediately available to plop down said accoutrements. Call me high maintenance if you must. I’m good with that.

Rita designs homes that are easy to live in, unassuming, warm and comfortable. Above all else, personal. Her taste is exquisite. And there isn’t a single thing here that you and I couldn’t reproduce on a tight budget in our own home. THAT is good design. It’s for everyone.

Susan’s Reading Requirements: Book Light for reading in bed: https://amzn.to/3Vzh6be, peel n’ stick wallpaper William Morris: https://amzn.to/3VaT2K5, Women’s Too Cozy Meow Slippers: https://amzn.to/3wVBuK9, Soft Fuzzy Throw Blanket: https://amzn.to/4ebUJj1, British Designers At Home: https://amzn.to/3KwkWez

Jun5

red and green should always be seen

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“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. “

And another favorite, Inkwell Cottage:

Jun3

the only egg in the room…

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…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

Jun1

…senses and sensibilities

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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

May20

Coco Chanel’s Tarot Cards

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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?

May18

Preservation Resource Center…

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WHO isn’t up for some preservation resources?!

I have often felt like my Dad was born in the wrong place and time – for which I’m grateful, of course (because…well…me.) He was gay, for one thing. He confided that to us after my parents 27 year marriage ended in their forties. But that was not something he was safe to disclose as a younger man, born in 1933, working in the factories of Detroit. He and my Mother both were talented beyond measure, both visually and musically. They never had much opportunity to be artists; they nurtured and encouraged it in us children. The expression that could not be contained, or even managed, was their rebellious spirits. You’ve heard me say that my parents were beatniks in the 50’s and became hippies in the 60’s…he did like to sport a colorful bandana around his forehead.

He played the piano, daily. We had a baby grand tucked in the corner of the living room where you would often find him tinkering. He played all the classics, but honky-tonk was his passion, and I suspect his sanity. I’m not exaggerating that his voice sounded like Frank Sinatra, and he was extraordinarily handsome throughout his lifetime. Circumstances being different, he’d certainly have given Sinatra some competition.

My father was not a particularly kind man. In fact, I’ve identified him in my older years of therapy as a narcissist, a sociopath. A man of extremely high intelligence and very low empathy. But I can’t help wondering who he might have been if born in a more tolerant time and culture, were he given even a bit more freedom of expression. Repression forces our personality out sideways in unhealthy choices, into addictions and immature abuses. I’m but one child of that fact. Please, God, may we finally learn that now, if we are to have any chance at all of a healthier future. Preferably before another world war. Preferably before the complete collapse of this empire. We have all suffered the consequences of oppression. Our society, our country, is bereft because of it. Our collective spirit is bound by grief, but we shall each know it personally. It’s our wake-up call.

Yesterday I discovered a fabulous new (to me) YouTube channel. Sorry (not sorry) to report – but I am a YT junkie. And home tours are my guilty pleasure, but I’m ever so picky. I want a lot of visual grist. This channel features restored historical homes of New Orleans, post Katrina. Let’s explore a few of these treats this coming week, beginning with this story, which brought me to tears for obvious reasons. THIS was so much like my childhood. Freeze this video on any frame at all and I will point out at least three things that spark memories. I am an endless fount of story, and I’m done apologizing for that. What awareness does this treasure spark for you?

Apr3

when it’s nobody’s business

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Heart pounding anxiety woke me up at 3 a.m; which is not unusual anymore. I managed to talk myself off that ledge in about a minute. I’m getting better at it. My goal was freedom. The goal is always going to be freedom. Because I feel like my dream world, my rest, was hijacked. It’s mine. I want it back.

My friends and I are all worried about our adult children. They are struggling to find their footing in a culture that is undermining them every step of the way. And we are not sure how to help, or if we can. Mind you, they were raised as we were, in decent middle class families. We were well educated, but our current incomes are not cutting it. We don’t have the financial security we thought we were building all our work life. Our children left school in debt with no guarantee of a job, let alone a living wage. I read a news article last week that shocked me to my core: recent studies have shown that at least fifty percent of the baby boomers in the U.S. are financially supporting adult children. In many cases it’s the adult child and their family. They came home to get their feet back on the ground – in one case cited, 13 years ago.

Children or not, everyone I know is struggling. We are all trying to figure this out as we go along. We have no role models. We’re outliving our parents, and we are in entirely uncharted territory. We are the first generation that is openly talking about the abuse our parents and grandparents kept secret. No one was consciously dealing with narcissistic abuse 20 years ago. Or 10. No one recognized that past generations were being groomed for sexual abuse. The culture tolerated it, they tolerated verbal abuse, even laughed about it. They tolerated bad behavior, made excuses for it. Hell, we’ve voted it into the White House. Taking accountability for your behavior was optional. Do you wonder we have an epidemic of dementia?! (Help me forget!) Addiction? Of narcissism? Of sex trafficking? Of all manner of spiritual bankruptcy? Can no one connect the dots here?! That pandemic was no accident – it was a physical manifestation of a spiritual problem. It’s time to pull our heads out of the sand.

Meanwhile, I’m struggling with my health. Last week I called for a doctor appointment and was reminded that I have to be interrogated by a nurse over the phone to determine whether or not I am sick enough to qualify for a precious appointment. I have to beg just to be seen. Then before I can be given the necessary antibiotic I have to endure a week’s worth of tests. Meanwhile, I was prescribed a temporary superficial treatment. Medicare doesn’t cover that prescription, so I didn’t fill it. I can’t do that and buy groceries. And I’m angry about that.

Now, lest you think me ungrateful, or just a whiner, I am aware of opportunity hiding here in plain sight. When worry and anxiety seem to steal my peace I know my training is not yet complete. And I’m not havoc-ing it anymore (see blog post of March 15th.) Intellectually I know that the way out of angst is gratitude. But my intellect is not easily coerced. I can’t expect to start pontificating about big, general platitudes and get myself free. Those old affirmations aren’t working anymore; this feels like spiritual warfare.

But. I can start small…go back to basics. I’m sure glad I bought an orange desk chair instead of black. Orange is the happiest color. Wow, I love my bed. I love my wide Frodo feet. I walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and I say “Thank You” to everything I pass (yes, out loud) – the floor, the countertop, the cat, the doorway, the moon outside. Try it. There are big things I am grateful for, too – like my son having survived cancer. He is struggling through his self-proclaimed “mid-life crisis”…but he’s here for it. Not all of his friends have made it past 40.

I can re-member myself whole. I have resources in my spiritual tool box: friends, some of my family, a loving therapist, tarot cards! At 3 a.m. with a racing heart I call in invisible help: “Christ Jesus, Archangel Michael, Ancestors! Any and all available light workers.” That’s step one. I am NOT TO BE TOILED WITH here. Neither are you – know that. God didn’t make a mistake. You were not a cosmic afterthought. You do not need to “find your purpose”…you ARE your purpose. Live like you belong here. There are no qualifications you haven’t fulfilled. You have exactly the same right to be here as 8,019,876,189 other people. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Since that has been established, I can be the narcissist’s worse nightmare. My home, my mind, and my body – my sanctuary – is a no tolerance zone. No talking down to anyone. I carry an expectation that you will be on your very best behavior around me and show up as present as possible. Don’t ever settle for anything less from anyone. Not your teacher, not your boss, not your doctor, and certainly not your family. I can laugh at myself with the best of them – when I’m silly or wrong. But don’t make fun of me at my expense. Don’t ridicule me. I’m a fucking spiritual Jedi, and I’ve trained my boundaries to be stronger than my empathy. Everybody sing along now…