A Dream of Home

A Dream of Home

Perhaps it was all due to the rain.  Incessantly pounding the roof since midnight, sluicing through the gutters, splashing the windowpanes, rolling waves in the birdbath.  Or maybe it was just because of the big bowl of strawberries I’d consumed right before bed.  Whatever the reason, the nightmare felt real and though not typically scary in the traditional sense, it woke me with a start and left me, at least for a few horrifying seconds, in that eerie limbo of uncertainty.   Slowly,  familiar shapes began to come into focus.   There to the left was the window seat, with Apple sound asleep in the pillows.  There was the star-shaped ottoman.  There was the leather porter’s chair and best of all, I could feel the soft weight of Edward’s head resting on top of my feet.  I fell back on my pillow feeling reprieved.

I had dreamed we sold our home.  In exchange for our beloved quirky cottage, we had moved into a huge house with large, lavish rooms.  All four of us knew at once it was a mistake, but the situation was, apparently, immutable.  I wandered these alien rooms in my dream with a rising feeling of panic and grief in my heart.  What had we done?! 
 Oh, it was such a relief to awaken.

It is no secret that I am a nester.  Even in hotel rooms, I have been known to place fresh flowers at my bedside and drape silk shawls over lampshades.  I detest it when hotel windows will not open and I abhor overhead lighting.  My surroundings play a monumental role in my mood, a fact perhaps due to my years as a designer, though it is far more likely I became a designer because of that fact.   In my years helping others create the homes of their dreams, I saw my role as that of an interpreter - one who could accurately translate the personality of a client into the ambiance of their home.  It is such a harsh world; don’t we all need a sanctuary that is uniquely our own? 

 I have been known to turn down projects from clients whose stated motivation in hiring me was that they wanted to “wow” their friends.  I have no interest in that goal.  Life is short and I’ve found I'd rather write.  But at my recent book signing, a former client showed up with a request for my help with a few new projects, and I immediately accepted.   This is a woman who, like myself, feels a kinship with the place she calls home.  Like me, her home is a more than a shelter; it is a refuge.  It is a place where memories have seeped into the very brick and mortar - where echoes of long ago laughter can still be heard down the hallways and family portraits smile down from the walls.  It is a joy to be there.

A few years back, a friend visited our home for the first time.  Wandering around, he suddenly turned to me and said, “You know, it’s the strangest thing.  But this house feels like a lot of love has been here.”  How I adored that comment, for in those few words he managed to succinctly express exactly how I feel about my home.  The love we four share (and yes I’m including Edward and Apple.  Did you think I wouldn’t?) seems to find it’s way into the very fabrics that hang round the four-poster bed.  It is there in that creak in the floor just outside the library, in that living room window pane that requires constant washing because it’s the one Apple pushes her nose against when the squirrels are about.  This place is as much a part of us as our names and much like those of the Bloomsbury set who expressed themselves through the decoration of their adored Charleston, we are imprinted on its every nook and cranny.

Over the past few months, it has been a joy to read along as one of my friends, Brooke Giannetti, has been sharing the building of her new home through her wonderful blog, Velvet and Linen.  Through her words one can easily see that she and her husband, Steve, are not constructing a house to “wow” the neighbours, but a home to shelter their much-cherished family.  The thrill she feels over every doorway and fireplace brick is contagious and beautifully illustrative of the importance, and individuality, of home.

I encourage you to follow along HERE.

And tell me ... much like the creak in the floor outside my library,

 is there some beloved idiosyncrasy of your own home you’d like to share?  

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The painting above is by Carl Larsson, 
someone else who recognized and celebrated the wonderful joys of home. 

This is one of my favourite compilations of his work.