Quoth the Raven:
“We have a winner”....

At one before midnight, with Edward watching on, I slipped my hand inside a green witch hat and drew out a tiny slip of paper on which was written, in red, a very special name. We are thrilled to announce that the name written thereon, and thus the winner of our drawing for the Wee Good Witch Keepsake Box, Is.....

29 Black Street!

A most sincere congratulations to Susan, a sweet and creative blogger. Please email me your address and I shall get your prize in the mail. May you find some extra special keepsake to hide within your new little Halloween Box!


“Can we go to bed now?”
Edward

Hearing Ghosts?

The closest I have ever come to an authentic ghostly encounter happened whilst staying in a 16th century manor house near Tintagel, Cornwall on a blustery early April night. Of grey stone and ivy covered, the old house was surrounded by tall trees that sheltered the strangely dramatic nests of vociferous rooks, whose continuous shrieks lent a rather macabre air to the atmosphere, even on the sunniest of days. Sumptuously decorated, our bedroom allowed views out over wind-swept fields, all the way to the sea.
I had caught a most devilish cold in damp and chilly Bath and carried it with me to the Cornish coast where, undeterred by fever, I had scampered up Tintagel Castle hill and stood out on its seaside bluff conjuring to my memory long cherished passages of Arthurian legend, in which Tintagel Castle plays a decidedly seminal role. A grand experience, and one I would never regret, but pay for it I did, with high fever and chills greeting me that night. As I lay in bed, sleepless and miserable, around three in the morning I heard a most unusual and unsettling sound, almost a Poeian cliche. A persistent, thundering knocking; a booming thump-thumping that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The Songwriter sat up, fascinated, to listen, as on and on it went, for what seemed like hours, but what was in actual fact only minutes, I’m sure. The rest of the old stone house was silent, no one stirring. No one of the living variety, at least. Anyone who had ever seen the spookiest of sixties movies,
The Haunting, would surely remember poor Julie Harris in exactly the same situation as we found ourselves now, as we listened from our four-poster in Cornwall. I suppose the normal reaction would have been to wonder if perhaps poor Julie's fate could be mine also, and I have since often wondered how I would have reacted if I had felt well, and quite my usual self. As it was, however, I wasn’t the least bit frightened, and frankly, could not have cared less, a fact I most definitely attribute to illness rather than bravery.
I have stayed in places most ghost-worthy, where the wind howled relentlessly all night and the shadows were deep enough to hide all manner of creature. I have burrowed in bed with one eye open, half in fear, half in hope. But alas, no apparition ever ventured my way, no spirit slid under my door. However, I’m young yet, still open minded, and there’s still time. I do wonder if I’m visited again if I’ll be quite so sanguine about it as before. We will just have to wait and see.

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more.".....
from The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

Appreciative

There are just so many sweet souls out there in the ether, otherwise known as the blogosphere. Sweet souls that leave me charming, affirmative comments, send me kind and humbling emails, give me awards, and tag me for interesting questionnaires. Sometimes I feel quite lame in answering... I know some do get past me! Blame it on an artist’s quirky, head in the clouds, schedule. But please know that I do appreciate you all very much! I think of Patricia over at PVE Design, who spontaneously painted the lovely portrait of Edward that now hangs proudly in my library. Thank you, thank you Patricia! You are a wonderful talent, and thoughtful beyond measure. I think of others of my amazing artist friends at
Middle of Nowhere, The Hermitage, 29 Black Street, Sarah Laurence, Oakmoon, A Fanciful Twist, Beading at the Beach.....who sent me a beautiful handmade pendant out of nowhere, Moonlight and Hares, Sea Angels, Dog Daisy Chains, Acorn Moon.....I could go on and on.
My oh, so talented fellow interior designers
at The House of Beauty and Culture ,Cote de Texas, Katiedid, Architect Design, My Notting Hill, and All the Best. The wonderfully eclectic, always interesting, and so welcoming, landing pads that are Life at Willow Manor, The Weaver of Grass, Letters From A Hill Farm, Garden Delights, The Dutchess, About New York, Cait O’Connor, etc, etc... And my most favorite fashion blog, better than any magazine...Observation Mode. For more great sites to visit, check out my ever-expanding blog roll. All these and many more make my reading and writing experiences here so rewarding, so inspiring, and just plain fun.
So, to honor all your kindness to both Edward and myself, I am doing my very first give-a-way. This little Halloween Keepsake Box, shown above, will be sent to one of you wonderful souls. Edward will help me with the drawing on Thursday night at one before midnight, and we'll announce thw winner Friday morning. To enter, please just comment on this particular post!
Happy Halloween to you all!

Sea Walk

I walked out to the sea at midnight.
In the roar of the night sea winds, I crossed opalescent white dunes, and stood spellbound under the hallucinatory glow of a low-hanging full moon. Not a bashful moon, content to gently impart its light in a modest manner, satisfied with the usual soft shadows and gently glimmering waters. This moon was theatrical. Suffused with an intensity of flame, it poured its golden light liberally over all creation, with a passion that enabled the dark sea waters to shine as rolling glass and the soft sands to glitter with such phosphorescence as if composed of a multitude of fairy crystals. This October moon was the author of a night not quite day and a day not quite night. The only solitary soul on the beach, it was as though I walked through a painting, feeling ephemeral and everlasting at the same time. I drank in as much of the restorative scene as I could hold and eventually turned and headed back to the tiny cottage where a big sleepy white dog sat staring out from a screened porch, only barely concealing his exasperation at not being included on this gift of a seaside walk.


I made it up to him the next day when he ran, unleashed and with his distaste of wet feet forgotten, over rocks and into tidal pools with the sort of joy that remains reserved for big dogs on fair beaches.

Call Me Ishmael

I have never enjoyed election season in my country. I find the stakes are far too high and the issues much too serious, to be entertained by the process, particularly when that process degenerates into something resembling a mendacious, hateful game played to be won at any cost and with no regard for veracity or consequence. I care, and I grieve, deeply about the place in which my country finds itself at present and, if I am not careful, these worries can grow until sleep eludes me and joy hides. But I do know of a remedy, tried and true. Like Melville’s Ishmael....”whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul...especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off - then, I account it high time to get to the sea as soon as I can.”

So, like Ishmael, we are heading to the sea. A tiny, lovely little cottage awaits our arrival tomorrow. An old wooden cottage right on the sea, with a tiny little bedroom, a tiny little kitchen, scuffy wooden floors and a big screened porch overlooking the beach, the waves and the spacious skies. Edward will be thrilled to bits for, although he is unaware of it now, both he and Apple are going along, and they simply adore being seaside. We shall run on the beach, play on the beach, we shall doze on the screened porch - we shall eat fruit, think lovely thoughts and read lovely books. We shall fix our gaze far, far out to sea and remember all the good that still remains in the world.
I look forward to returning with a quieter mind and a renewed sense of hope for positive changes in my homeland, as well as a marked decrease in my desire to methodically knock the hats off strangers in the street!

quote by Herman Melville from his book, Moby Dick

Haunted Houses

The Songwriter has an unabashed love of classic ghost stories which has resulted in an impressive collection - more than enough of the scary tales to satisfy each and every dark October night. Sometimes on especially wicked evenings, he reads them aloud to us.
M.R. James, Ambrose Bierce, Edith Wharton, Dinesen and Poe - all masters of chilling lore and frightful fable. We often gather round the orange glow of a fire to listen, snuggling down in soft blankets, with comforting pillows at the ready in case I happen to need something to clutch tightly and still a pounding heart. I am not sure if Edward listens all that closely to the plots of each tale, but if there were an actual ghost in attendance, he would, no doubt, be the first in the room to notice him. I am certain he sees things I cannot. And after all, I do happen to believe in haunted houses.
Once, on a golden autumn afternoon I stood in the dining room at Hammersmith Farm in Newport, Rhode Island, watching as the late afternoon sun streamed in through the huge floor to ceiling window. Hammersmith Farm was the childhood home of Jacqueline Bouvier and served as a family retreat after she married John F. Kennedy. During his presidency, Kennedy’s helicopter would often land on the expansive back lawn and he would stride up the hill to enter the house through that very dining room window. Standing there, I could almost hear the helicopter blades whirring overhead and catch the whispers of happy, echoed welcomes on the air. There was hardly anyone else in the rambling seaside house the afternoon of my visit and unlike many famous houses, there were no restrictions, I was free to wander anywhere I chose. The rooms were unchanged, frozen in faded time. Jackie’s wicker-filled childhood bedroom, the large, serene room she later shared with her husband, the floral walls of the gracious staircase where, in a familiar photograph, she once lifted her arms in delight on the night of her debutante ball, the grassy sunlit hill where the famous photographs of the Kennedy wedding reception were taken - all remained just as they had been then. I felt like a most reluctant fortune teller in that place, as I knew what lay ahead for these large-spirited people who still seemed so very present in the glow of that sunlit afternoon. I could feel the muted rustlings of history in every room, down every hallway. There was an undeniable melancholy to the atmosphere, as if the grand old house itself had absorbed something essential one grey November day, a sadness that now permeated the very air inside its shingled walls.

Hammersmith Farm was sold not long after my visit there, the floral wallpaper stripped, the furniture carted away. I have always felt fortunate to have been there when I was, for I believe I visited more that just a house that afternoon. There were spirits present there, shadows from history still dancing in the setting sunbeams that shone through a tall dining room window.
A haunted house? Absolutely.

"Our revels are now ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on..."

William Shakespeare from The Tempest

Painting Above: The Haunted House by Atkinson Grimshaw

Now Open...

Keepsake Boxes At The Shoppe of Edward

Secrets. Treasures. Keepsakes. For all of us, these are such personal, valuable things. Where do we hide our secrets? Where is the place to put that small wondrous item that holds special meaning for us alone? A perfect pink shell picked up on a special seashore, that lock of golden hair, that first tooth, the little bit of blue from a wedding, the sweet note or the first love letter.
I have always been enamored of the keepsake box, the reliquary, the chinese box that only I knew the secret way to open. In the spirit of treasures and secrets, I have been making Keepsake Boxes for clients and friends for several years. I enjoy creating them so much that I am now making a few available through The Shoppe at The House of Edward. Each one unique, these boxes feature vintage and antique items and are embellished with various glass beads, vintage flowers and German glass glitters.

There will be special Holiday Boxes each season,
with a few Halloween Boxes available now,
each featuring a little too cute to be scary
Wee Good Witch
just waiting to hide
all the deepest darkest of secrets,
or maybe just some save-till-later candy.
Christmas Boxes should be available
starting around the first of
November.




































There will be beautiful Dog Boxes,
each featuring a silver-plated
frame to showcase a
favorite photo of a
favorite best friend.





and extra special Wedding Boxes.




















Each Wedding Box features an antique wedding couple in china or bisque. No two boxes are alike, some are double tiered, some triple, with each tier opening to hide treasured wedding keepsakes. These special creations can also be custom ordered in individual colour palettes.
I have opened a shop at Etsy to feature these Keepsake Boxes, along with the occasional antique treasure I may pick up on my journeys. The Halloween Boxes are up now, and the Wedding Boxes, Dog Frame boxes, and a few Baby Boxes will soon follow. I so enjoy creating these and will make every attempt to keep some in the store at all times. If there is something special you would like fashioned just for you, do send me an email and let me know.
Wander through the shoppe, and take a look. You never know, you may just have a secret keepsake in need of a hideaway.
And, each box comes with an autographed photo of Edward himself!

The Blessing of the Animals

Freshly brushed, with a spring in his step,
Edward went to church today.
The Sunday dawn gleamed with perfection, one of those early October blessings in and of itself, complete with an cheerful quality to the light, and a nip in the breeze that made one glad to be even a small part of creation. The majestic atmosphere of the old cathedral was only enhanced by the presence of so many of God’s creatures - family members not normally in attendance. Stained-glass saints looked kindly down from their windows as bejeweled matrons sat serenely holding look-alike Persian cats while tweedy gentlemen entered beside their stout and hardy Bulldogs. Delighted children carried in fat new puppies sporting bows for collars, a pair of noble harlequin Great Danes strode calmly down the center aisle alongside scampering Westies, perpetually smiling Golden Retrievers and inquisitive Beagles. A grey kitten was on a leash. Near the front, a dignified white Standard Poodle sat upright and reverent in his pew, while a timid little woman in brown perched with one small hand protectively resting atop an ornate, golden birdcage. The congregation rose to sing “All Creatures Great and Small” and when the priest spoke of the depth of God’s love and care for these good friends of ours - both those present and those gone on before us - more than a few tears filled human eyes.
When the priest placed his hand on Edward’s fluffy head, spoke his name, and blessed him as one of God’s sweet wonders, I realized once again how fortunate I am to share my life with a wonderful, loving animal.
Truly a blessing. For both of us.


"I care not for a man's religion whose dog and cat are not the better for it."
Abraham Lincoln

This Very Night

On the sea, where the stone cyclops dwells just off shore, and keeps his watch with a proprietary stare on the hillside above, never blinking, never looking away, a sentinel with a permanence as solid as the rock of his composition, we spoke our name into the air and the massive gates began to slowly open. The ancient fir trees nodded to each other as they watched us pass, on and further on, till we turned right at the monkey puzzle tree and beheld the old house waiting, just beyond the moss covered wall. A gust of wind ushered fat, unwieldy raindrops into our path as we were bundled in through the old carved door by kindly souls who escorted us safely into our quarters where the fire blazed and the rooms were scented with sandalwood. As the wind howled, the stony giant watched through our windows.
All through the black night.
The first time, on this very night in October, I slept here.

The Castle By The Sea

Hast thou seen that lordly castle,
That Castle by the Sea?
Golden and red above it
The clouds float gorgeously.

And fain it would stoop downward
To the mirrored wave below;
And fain it would soar upward
In the evening's crimson glow.

Well have I seen that castle,
That Castle by the Sea,
And the moon above it standing,
And the mist rise solemnly.

The winds and the waves of ocean,
Had they a merry chime?
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers,
The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?....

from Castle by the Sea by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Midnight. September 30

Wait. Shhhh! Listen. Did you hear that? No? There it is again, are you certain you didn’t hear something? Coming from down the road, or ... maybe ... just outside that window? Sort of an lyrical, otherworldly sound ... pleasant, but a bit mysterious. A bird ? Perhaps a raven? Or... maybe... laughter? Black cat .. or bat ... or rat? Maybe. Perhaps you should check behind that door, just in case I’m right. I know I definitely heard something, and don’t try to tell me it was just the wind. Oh wait, I know what it is ... I remember now. It’s October! Oh yes, can’t you see it? Just slipping through the trees and wafting across the stream. Look, there’s color leading the way, with wind and music and firelight right behind her! Oh, I think I saw a witch there in back and yes, there’s that laughter again. I’m certain that was a jack-o-lantern grinning out from behind all those swirling scarlet maple leaves, and I can just make out a thin sickle moon and several pale ghosts somewhere near the end of the line. Yes, yes, and now I smell apples and wood smoke as well! October! Now can you see all those lovely days lined up just outside the window?? Look... I can count thirty-one of them, all heading this way.
Go ahead, open the door. Invite them all in!
October is here.


October's Party

October gave a party;
The leaves by hundreds came-
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.

George Cooper

An Audience With Whimsy

A friend visited our home for the first time a while back and wandered through every room before turning to me and saying, “You know what I like best about your house? I can tell that real people live here. Real eccentric people.” I had to laugh. Not only was his statement meant good-naturedly, it was rather refreshing in its honesty. And it was also quite true. Yes, that’s a life size wooden rocking horse in the bedroom.... yes, you do see a collection of witches’ hats in my office .... on that table by the window? yes, that is indeed a tiny, perfectly formed dress-wearing china pig sitting inside an architectural model of a Victorian gazebo holding a spyglass to her eye.... and those antique velvet shoes with the turned-up toes and feather trim resting on that stack of art books? Well, they could be part of an early theatrical children’s costume, or they just might have belonged to a forest
wood nymph....who knows for certain?

Through all the seriousness of life, one thing I have happily carried along with me from childhood is a love of, and charmed devotion to, whimsy. When one enters the star-strewn hallways of the imagination, that soft laughter one hears coming from one of the more colourful corridors to the left, is whimsy. Whimsy is the unseen velvet clad fellow who visited J0 Rowling on the Manchester train one evening to whisper in her ear about a certain school called Hogwarts.... his is the voice art decorators heard when they designed the sets for the movie Nanny McPhee. P.L Travers politely asked Mary Poppins to jump into a pavement
painting at his suggestion, and it was he who informed J.M. Barrie that the best way to Neverland was out the window. Oh, his influence has been, and continues to be, phenomenal. The lake-diving pig in the Michael Sowa painting, that sweet, timid lion trying to get through Oz, the muffler-clad faun leaning against the lamp post in a land called Narnia, a trespassing rabbit named Peter. All created by adults following a well-timed audience with whimsy.

While allowing him autonomy of one’s imagination is never recommended, I have heard that he behaves most poorly when kept locked up for too long. Indeed, if unfairly treated or worse, ignored, he has been known to vacate the premises entirely, which is just about the saddest thing conceivable. Let him loose occasionally. Seek his counsel every now and then. Let him choose a book he’d like to read, or a movie he might enjoy, perhaps even a scarf to wear on a blustery day. He’ll be full of ideas.

And lucky for me, one of his favorite holidays, Halloween, is almost upon us, and I do need to seek his advice on which of those good witches’ hats to don this year.

On Beauty

I spent last weekend replanting all the window boxes around my home with fall flowers and had a marvelous time doing so. Now freshly finished, they provide me with so much pleasure when I gaze at them through my windows filled as they are with their dwarf fir trees, purple lantanas, sweet alyssum, and emerald green moss. Soon the mammoth stone frog which rests in the flower bed out front will share his floral home with pale green cinderella pumpkins and giant purple cabbages. I can’t wait to see him ensconced in his autumnal landscape. In the grand scheme of things, are these projects important? What do they add to the betterment of my existence, or for that matter, to the world around me? I suppose how one answers that question depends on the importance of beauty in one’s life.
So often, especially in the current climate of this early 21st century, the simple pursuit and love of beauty is dismissed as something quite trivial and unimportant. How dangerous that is for the soul. Like Keats, I have always found Truth in Beauty and felt it to be as life-affirming and essential as the very air that I breathe. It is also a gift which the natural world affords in great measure, but a gift too often ignored and, I believe, ignored at one’s peril. When we no longer look up to stare at the harvest moon hanging low in the night sky, when we are unable to marvel at the verdancy of an English hillside, or stand awestruck at the majesty of a snow white polar bear crossing an icy landscape - when we cannot hear the glory inside a Saint-Saens symphony nor gaze in wonderment at the depth of feeling within a Van Gogh painting, then what is left of goodness in our lives? When the value of this beauty is only measured in the amount of money it may represent, have we not all been diminished?
I ponder these questions often in face of the stridency of modern life. I recently came across this most sagacious quote by the Swiss theologian, Hans Urs von Balthasar, and found it to be a validating balm for my wonderings.

"We no longer dare to believe in beauty and we make of it a mere appearance in order the more easily to dispose of it. Our situation today shows that beauty demands for itself at least as much courage and decision as do truth and goodness, and she will not allow herself to be separated and banned from her two sisters without taking them along with herself in an act of mysterious vengeance. We can be sure that whoever sneers at her name as if she were the ornament of a bourgeois past - whether he admits it or not - can no longer pray and soon will no longer be able to love."

Hans Urs von Balthasar

Photograph Above: Hillside Near Lake Windermere, Cumbria, UK

The Birthday of a New Season

At forty-four minutes and eighteen seconds past eleven this very morning, Edward and I stood at the side of a pine forest, in front of a quiet lake, watching for its arrival. As the water lapped against the rocky shore we waited. Dappled turtles formed a hard shell queue on a lichen covered log beside us, while a heron stood serenely near, with one lanky leg poised above the water, all of us frozen still, listening, silently, together in the soft glow of the late morning sun. Watching, waiting. For Autumn. Sweet red orange golden autumn, with its cinnamon winds and dancing leaves all heralding a most welcome change. May this change of season bring with it a renewal, of spirit, of purpose and of hope. In my search for beauty in the finite world, may I discover more of the infinite, and may looking outward to the needs of others provide me with a shining bit of peace to call my very own.
May the birth of this fresh, clean, new season give us all a fresh, clean, new start.
It was strange to think that when we stopped our walk by this glassy lake it was summer, and when we continued on to catch up with Apple and her Songwriter, it was autumn. A brand new season had been born to the world and we were there to witness it.


A Birthday Poem
by Ted Kooser

Just past dawn, the sun stands
with its heavy red head
in a black stanchion of trees,
waiting for someone to come
with his bucket
for the foamy white light,
and then a long day in the pasture.
I too spend my days grazing,
feasting on every green moment
till darkness calls,
and with the others
I walk away into the night,
swinging the little tin bell
of my name.

The Biannual Task

I love living in an old house, but I have to admit that there are a few inconveniences, one of which is the decided lack of closet space. This necessitates a twice yearly ritual that I both look forward to and dread in equal measures. The switching of the closets. You see, I keep the current season’s wardrobe in my main closet and the other season in another. So twice a year, sometime during the first real week during which I can feel the change in the weather, I switch them around. Inevitably this results in the unearthing of garments I’d forgotten, so I spend the day trying everything on, discarding some things and rediscovering others. It’s best to do this on a free day, nothing pending and no distractions, which is why I chose the task for this week when the Songwriter was out of town. The chosen day dawned cool and crisp and, after breakfast, I began. I turned Billie Holliday up to a pleasing level, poured myself some really good coffee, opened the windows so the early autumn breezes could blow through and soon, as happens every time, I found myself clad in the most outrageous combinations of various and sundry ensembles .
“Oh, there’s that vintage dress that I love! .... Ooh, those velvet trousers are so very Emma Peel!..... I wonder if those ancient riding boots still fit?...... Look Edward, a Muff! ..... Well gee, I didn’t realize I owned a tam o’shanter!
Soon I am wearing all of these at once, which is a sartorial risk best left to the professionals. But really, it’s so much fun. Music up loud, dogs running in and out, and me in my own private changing room of my own private store where everything is free. It's a bit of a chore, sure, but a wonderful way to see one's seasonal wardrobe in a new light. And the best part is, at the end of the day, I have a perfectly clean, bright, folded and sorted closet and I’m all set for the brand new weather!
Now, could anyone out there use a Tam o'shanter?

A Wee Bit Of Happiness

All throughout my life I have occasionally experienced a feeling I could only describe as a rush of unexpected happiness. Driving down the road, walking Edward, or just drifting along a crowded street, devoid of thought, it comes over me like a sea breeze, and I suddenly feel ...happy. I used to analyze it. What specifically am I happy about? Why did this feeling show itself at this particular moment? Did I do, or think, something to conjure it? No more. Now I just close my eyes, take a breath, and drink it in. I have learned to accept it as a gift. A blessing. Perhaps a brush of an angel’s wing. Or God’s own gaze turned my way.

The colors of September always entice me into my poetry books and I recognized a bit of this happy feeling I have attempted to describe here within the verses of this picturesque poem by Raymond Carver.

Happiness

So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

Nocturnal

There are times, and oh, this is one of them, when my schedule has become just a little later with each passing day, minute by minute, more and more nocturnal, until eventually I find myself keeping the hours of a raccoon. Never really being a morning person, I have often found I get a real boost of creativity when the sun goes to bed. If that second inspirational wind chances to blow in my door around ten in the evening, then I can stay up till all hours of the night, happy as a clam, working away at whatever project currently has my attention. To be certain, there are less distractions to be found inside the darkness, no jangling telephones, no harsh raps on my door, but it’s something more than that. I just love the nighttime. The soft curiosity of the moon’s light as he peeks in my window, traversing my table, offering his gentle help with my task. His sunny sister is often so assertive as to require a pulled curtain or two during the day, but the moonlight is always a welcome helpmate. Taking a break, I glance outside at the darkened magnolia tree knowing that it shelters scores of mauve grey doves as they sleep with their peaceful, perfect heads tucked safely in the stillness of their wings. I listen to the old ebony clock by the fireplace, like the steady, sweet heartbeat of the quiet house, and I feel blessed in my work. This would not be a problem if the rest of the world saw fit to follow my lead on these revised hours of operation. However, I have found that this is simply not the case. I am supposed to be up and at it each morning with the rest of the early risers. This of course pleases Edward immensely as it usually means I will need some sort of a naptime in the afternoon, which is his idea of pure sybaritic bliss.
I will gradually wean myself off of this schedule to better fit in with the rest of the workaday world, but for now... I am pleased to say,
it’s just me and the hoot owls.

Not to sleep
A Poem by Robert Graves

Not to sleep all the night long, for pure joy,
Counting no sheep and careless of chimes
Welcoming the dawn confabulation
Of birds, her children, who discuss idly
Fanciful details of the promised coming -
Will she be wearing red, or russet, or blue,
Or pure white? - whatever she wears, glorious:
Not to sleep all the night long, for pure joy,
This is given to few but at last to me,
So that when I laugh and stretch and leap from bed
I shall glide downstairs, my feet brushing the carpet
In courtesy to civilized progression,
Though, did I wish, I could soar through the open window
And perch on a branch above, acceptable ally
Of the birds still alert, grumbling gently together.

Friends

It doesn’t always work out this way but, for me, growing up as an only child was a lovely experience, and one which warmly nurtured my inchoate, but burgeoning, creativity. I never had one imaginary friend. I had lots of them. My imagination was populated with all sorts of characters, some from storybooks, some from movies, some legendary figures known to frequent childhood imaginations for centuries, but most totally original. Gleaming elves and glaring ogres, brave knights, wise wizards, recalcitrant fairies, exuberant dwarves, leafy tree people and sparkly water sprites, scores upon scores of talkative animals. Angels? Possibly. Some peeked in my window in the mornings, some accompanied me to school, a few of the less gregarious types resided in my clothes closet, but most waited for me outside under the trees. In all seasons of the year, my dog and I could be found roaming the woods around our house, me bundled up to the eyeballs in winter, often barefoot in summer, and that’s where the more fascinating individuals of my imagination usually made their appearances. These friends taught me to trust that imagination, helped me to see it as a priceless resource unique to me alone, a storeroom of ideas only I could unlatch, anytime I desired, and for the rest of my life. Perhaps if I had not had a treasured dog to confide in, I would have acquired one single, special imaginary friend instead of many. But I loved the ones I had.
And if I’m quick, I can still sometimes catch them grinning in at my window on an early morning, just as the curtain opens.

Aunt Leaf
by Mary Oliver

Needing one, I invented her - - -
the great-great-aunt dark as hickory
called Shining-Leaf, or Drifting-Cloud
or The-Beauty-of-the-Night.

Dear aunt, I'd call into the leaves,
and she'd rise up, like an old log in a pool,
and whisper in a language only the two of us knew
the word that meant follow,

and we'd travel
cheerful as birds
out of the dusty town and into the trees
where she would change us both into something quicker - - -
two foxes with black feet,
two snakes green as ribbons,
two shimmering fish - - - and all day we'd travel.

At day's end she'd leave me back at my own door
with the rest of my family,
who were kind, but solid as wood
and rarely wandered. While she,
old twist of feathers and birch bark,
would walk in circles wide as rain and then
float back

scattering the rags of twilight
on fluttering moth wings;

or she'd slouch from the barn like a gray opossum;

or she'd hang in the milky moonlight
burning like a medallion,

this bone dream, this friend I had to have,
this old woman made out of leaves.

Painting above by Edmond Aman-Jean

Ah, Etro

“Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street, fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening.”
Coco Chanel

In the movie from last summer, The Devil Wears Prada, Meryl Streep’s imperious character, Miranda Priestly, delivers a snarkily brilliant speech that serves to trace the flow of design from the well-spring of originality to the trickle down of commonality. To most interior designers, Ms. Priestly was preaching to the choir. We learned long ago to view runway models of each new fashion season as lithe and fluid fortune tellers, for surely the fabrics, colors and moods they unveil may very well show up as new choices for homes as well as haberdashery. Often, this is a very fortunate thing indeed.

Recently, in the clothing world, it seems I’ve often felt presented with one of two choices. Either dress like Britney, or dress like Barbara Bush. Neither has held much appeal for me. However, while cutting through Neiman Marcus on my way to get my hair trimmed and tamed last week, I was stopped cold by the new fall clothes of the Italian design house, Etro. Such resplendent fabrics, such gorgeous lines, they were a pleasure to see. As the price tags were a tad prohibitive, I chose to view them as though I were on a museum prowl, instead of a shopping spree. It seemed to help quench desire just a bit and some of the Etro creations could certainly stand up to the recharacterization. Such a mood was created with these beautiful frocks, they all whispered autumn in such delicate, atmospheric tones. As usual, I could also see the glorious rooms they could well inspire, so that eventually I wasn’t sure whether I’d want to wear them or upholster a chair with them. Perhaps these clothes signal a renaissance of exquisite, creative sartorial choices for my future, as well as enticing new designs for our homes.
Something to look forward to.

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”
J. R. R. Tolkien

For anyone with an artistic bent and assiduous observational skills, inspiration can be found just about anywhere. For myself, if I have no pressing commitments, there is hardly a better place to spend an hour or two than in the farmer’s market. Approached with passion, cooking can be an art that affords its creator a quite tasty, tempting freedom of expression while at the same time catering to the epicurean delight of others. And if one has the luxury of time and can approach a meal, a dinner party, or even just a new, more adventurous recipe as one would approach a painting, a poem or some other sort of creative endeavor, then the farmer’s market is a living, breathing palette of color, texture and taste.
I am never happier than when in my kitchen, with breezy open windows, good music playing, and dogs dozing on the floor while I fashion tantalizing concoctions like a benevolent enchantress with a wooden spoon for a wand and a floral apron for a star-laden robe. I have always felt that culinary spells and potions are best brewed at this time of the year, which is just another of the myriad of reasons I am so delighted that autumn is here. Fresh apple pies cooling by the window, the entire house redolent with the fragrance of one of James Beard’s best breads, plump chickens roasting with vegetables and wine, the aromatic mingling of flavors in a long simmering soup, all these are joys of the fall season. And the farmer’s market is the autumnal cook’s equivalent to the artist’s most fantastical supply store.
Take my advice, on a perfectly clear, perfectly cool upcoming day, point yourself towards your nearest and best market. Take your time, don’t rush, meander through. Enjoy the infinite variety of pleasures available to the senses. The prismatic aubergine hues of an eggplant, the craggy touch of a fresh brown coconut, the warm perfume of exotic coffee beans - a synthesis of inspiration for delicious tastes to create, and to savor.
And don’t even get me started on the fat orange pumpkins and the sunflowers!

Painting above: The Vegetable Stall by Thomas Heaphy

Edward In His Favorite Chair

Home

When we brought Edward home, almost four years ago now, he sighed a big sigh, and fell fast asleep in front of the fire. As it was just a few days before Christmas, naturally there were lots of errands to run, lots of gifts to deliver, and we took him with us on each little outing. For a few days, every time we put him in the car, his spirits plummeted. I could see him, through the rear view mirror, head drooping, eyes lowered - he looked like he didn’t have a friend in the world. Pulling back into our drive after holiday rounds were done, a remarkable transformation took place in Edward. Smiling his big smile, dancing on his new leash, he could hardly contain his happiness. He would run up the front steps and bounce around at the door waiting to be let in with such happy anticipation. Finally, I understood. With each errand we ran, he thought it was another trip to another home. He’d been on the streets for a while, and shuttled around a good bit after being rescued by the shelter. He was overjoyed when he realized he wasn’t being taken away again, but was coming back to the same place, his place, the place he wanted so badly to call home. Well of course, it broke my heart right into when I realized what was going on.

Home. Just four letters, but such an abundant word that encompasses so much. A place, a feeling, a concept, an idea of belonging. Upon entering the home of a new client for the first time, I often ask them this question, “where do you put the Christmas tree?” An unexpected inquiry, and one that leads them to talk about their house in a different way. Not just as a series of functional rooms, but as a vital part of who they are, a tangible translation of their personalities, their dreams, what they value in life. Anyone can live in a pretty house, but the real joy comes from living in a home that is truly you. Your sanctuary, your haven, your home. A place where one is truly oneself, where the door can literally be closed to the outside world with its clamor and discord.

As Edward now chooses which of his favorite spots to nap when he’s sleepy, gets a drink of water from his own china bowl when he’s thirsty, or hops up in his favorite chair to while away an afternoon, he is at home, and he knows it. His home. His place of belonging. The street outside seems so far away from in here.
It’s a nice feeling, for both of us.

“There is a magic in that little world, home; it is a mystic circle that surrounds comforts and virtues never known beyond its hallowed limits”
Robert Southey