The Architecture of Happiness

What a welcome occurence when one finds a book in which, page after page, one’s own long held, though infrequently well-articulated, beliefs and feelings are validated. I have recently been immersed in such a book, head nodding affirmitively with each paragraph I read. The book is The Architecture of Happiness, by Alain de Botton. In it, Mr de Botton expertly articulates his belief that architecture, including design and decoration, can greatly influence the thoughts and feelings of people dwelling within. As someone whose moods are sensitive to my surroundings, I can now point to a wonderful reference on the subject. In one chapter, Mr. de Botton provides an illuminating example for his reader by sharing a personal experience of his own. Escaping a London shower one afternoon, he ducks into a McDonalds in which, surrounded by harsh lighting and plasticine interiors, he observes the behavior of the customers within. Later, he eloquently constrasts their behavior with that of those inside the cavernous, votive-lit Westminster Cathedral across the road, concluding that “the stonework threw into relief all that was compromised and dull, and kindled a yearning for one to live up to its perfections.”

I once stood inside the childhood bedroom of John Lennon at Mendips, his Liverpool home. Not grand, by any stretch of the definition, in fact it was tiny. But with its high ceilings and a gracious leaded glass bay window, it was a most magical room. I could easily picture the young Lennon as he lay on his twin sized bed looking out those beautiful casement windows at the stars, lost in his own imagination. Some thought had gone into the creation of this room. Some thought beyond mere function.

The British writer John Ruskin once said, “A good building must do two things. Firstly it must shelter us and secondly it must speak to us. And it must speak to us of all the things that are most important and that we need reminding of day to day.” Empirically speaking, our surroundings have great influence on our spirits. All this calls up weighty questions with conclusions that are likely far from objective. Questions such as “what is beauty?” and “how does the quality of our environment influence our happiness, our ennui, or our misery?” But I don’t believe these questions to be frivolous. I find them fascinating.

Sea Fever

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

By John Masefield
1878-1967

English Poet Laureate 1930-1967

The Story Of Apple

I have been getting requests for photos and information about Edward’s best friend and housemate, the illustrious Apple. Fellow dog-lover, Susan, over at 29blackstreet was especially enthusiastic in her desire to make Apple's acquaintance and wondered if we were keeping her under wraps for a reason! Actually, truth be told, Apple is more my husband’s furry shadow plus, being black as night and always on the go, she is more than a bit difficult to photograph. But rest assured, she is a sweet and beautiful girl, and we are fiercely proud of her.

When Edward came to live with us, he was just under one year old. We enrolled him in a training class, mainly for socialization purposes, and noticed immediately how much he loved the off-leash playtime with all the other dogs. He would run around this big indoor arena, batting dogs with his front paws, jumping and rolling with utter glee. We had always been a one dog household, but seeing this we knew what we would have to do. Get Edward a friend. So, the search began. We found Apple at the same rescue shelter as Edward. She had been born at animal control and the shelter had rescued her mother and siblings from there, fostering the puppies until they were old enough to be adopted out. We arrived at the shelter just before closing on a cold adoption day in March. Apple was the last of the puppies left from her family, and I was allowed to hold her. Cashmere soft fur, extravagant ears, and jumbo sized paws, with a snow white bit of fur on her chest and chin. I ask, what would you have done? We brought Edward in to meet her and Apple was totally enthralled by him. She bonded immediately with Edward, who rode home with her as if he’d known her all his young life. While cooking dinner that night, I turned around to see both dogs asleep on the kitchen floor, Apple’s little ebony head on Edward’s big white paw. They have been the best of friends ever since.



The photo above was taken when she was four months old and enjoying sitting in my lap at my rather messy desk. Now that she is grown, Apple appears to be some sort of amalgamation of sheepdog materials with a soupcon of terrier added to the mix. She has a copious, glorious coat and has conveniently grown to be the same size as Edward. She is a dog that is always curious, always cheerful. She never goes anywhere at a stroll, she is always moving at a trot, or running full out, with something definite on her mind. She sleeps on her back and loves green beans. We adore her. It is such a treat to watch Edward and Apple play together, nap together, eat together, go on trips with us together, and challenge the garden squirrels together.
We will never be a one dog household again.

Arts and Entertainment

A rollicking conversation took place in my family room few nights ago. My favorite cousin and his wife were in town for a visit and we were all discussing recent movies we’d seen, each person offering up their own critiques. It seemed that one after another, my favorite movies of the past year were on the “most hated” list of my cousin’s wife, a fact which we all found completely funny. I thought Daniel Day-Lewis’s performance in There Will Be Blood was one of the most fascinating portraits of narcissistic greed ever captured in any art form. And, to me there could not be a better illustration of the truth, “the love of money is the root of all evil”, than that contained in No Country For Old Men. But to her, these were movies to be endured, not enjoyed. She wanted happy endings, and I had to concede, these had none. Laughingly we talked about the differences in what we seek from movies. She wanted entertainment, and I wanted illumination. She looked for happily ever after, I looked for truth. Now, before I portray myself as a brooding old bluestocking, dark and devoid of humor or fun, let me be the first to admit that I love a light, happy story as much as anyone. Babe is on my top ten list, Harvey the white pooka, pictured above with his friend Elwood P. Dowd, is quite real to me, and The Wizard of Oz changed my life as a child. However, while I will buy my ticket to see beautiful Meryl in Mamma Mia , I am waiting with bated breath to see her in the upcoming film version of the play, Doubt. I will enjoy both, I am sure, but the latter will more likely be the one I carry with me and ponder for days to come.

It’s amazing how many movies are released every month, every year. Incredible really, when you think of the money and time involved in each. But how many actually leave us with something to take home? Ideas, truths, revelations of ourselves and the world around us, controversies to argue over. Film is a powerful art form, and truly great acting is such a transcendent thing. Compare the performance of Dame Judi Dench in Ladies in Lavender with the one in Notes on a Scandal, for example. How does she do that? To create such complete portraits of two such diametrically opposed characters and to do it so believably. One doesn’t see her acting, she has become the women in the stories so completely. The first heartbreaking, the other diabolical, but both amazingly real. How is it that the aftorementioned Meryl Streep could have followed up Sophie’s Choice with Silkwood? Or, gorgeously sexy Helen Mirren could actually morph seamlessly into Queen Elizabeth II? It just fascinates me. The true art found in these performances is, to me, that they allow us to see into the lives of other people and, in turn, see better into ourselves and how we fit into the sphere of humanity. Little Miss Sunshine was so funny to me because it was so painfully true. Each character was someone I knew in one way or another.

Ah well, it seems my sweet cousin-in-law is in for more of these art versus entertainment conversations, as her eldest son is currently studying for a career in film-making. However, I can’t think about that now, I’m off to an afternoon showing of Batman!
Oh, but do share some of your favorite recent films, won’t you?

Good Luck Charms and Memories

There is an antique copy of J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan and Wendy that resides on a table in my bedroom. It is green cloth with gold lettering and it is filled, three or four to a page, with four-leaf clovers. Inexplicably, and through no fault of my own, I have always been able to easily find four-leaf clovers. Without trying. I just look down, or over, or yon, and there is one looking back at me. This happens when I’m lolling about my back garden, it happens when I’m visiting someone else’s back garden, when I’m just strolling along or when I’m running with Edward. I just seem to glance to the side and, voila, a four-leaf clover. I stop, pluck it, put it in my pocket, and later place it with the others in my green book. I have done this for many years, and now the book is stuffed with these little symbols of green good luck. Growing up, I never considered this to be an unusual thing but later others began to tell me that it was, indeed, not exactly the norm.

Once, whilst visiting my husband’s uncle, this little peculiarity of mine became a bit of a problem. Uncle Rob was well into his nineties and had always lived on the same piece of daffodil covered land in a quirky little rock house that he had built himself. Most of the world’s so-called progress had eluded him and he quite preferred it that way. His ideas were old ones and he remained a contented part of an earlier mindset and a simpler time. On this particular sunny afternoon, my husband and I were up in Uncle Rob’s back garden having a visit. While the gentlemen conversed I was sort of daydreaming and gazing around. Sure enough, I looked down and spied, per usual, a four-leaf clover. I picked it and handed it over to Uncle Rob. He was delighted. “Would you look at that! That’s a lucky girl!” Well, they continued to talk and, once again, I looked to the side and... you guessed it. When I handed this one to the old man, his reaction was a bit more muted, still excited but... I thought he might have looked at me, well, a little funny, but figured it was just the light or my imagination. Well, by the time I handed over the fifth one, my husband was vigorously shaking his head at me from behind his uncle, and Uncle Rob was most certainly looking at me differently than anyone had ever looked at me before. A sidelong narrow-eyed stare, as if he’d heard about people like me in his time, but had never before seen one in the flesh.
I think from that day on, he was never exactly certain whether or not I was capable of turning him into a badger, and he wasn’t about to find out.

Uncle Rob has been gone several years now and we all miss him. A few days ago, I stopped in front of what used to be his homeplace. There are luxury condos there now. No leafy trees, no daffodils, no four-leaf clovers. Yet, I can close my eyes and see them all clearly. I am grateful for that. Just as I am grateful for my Peter Pan book full of
good luck charms and memories.

A Good Boy

I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day,
I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play.

And now at last the sun is going down behind the wood,
And I am very happy, for I know that I've been good.

My bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair,
And I must be off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer.

I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun arise,
No ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my eyes.

But slumber hold me tightly till I waken in the dawn,
And hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the lawn.
Robert Louis Stevenson

“It’s almost like he knows me!”
Edward

If you are cast in a different mould to the majority,
it is no merit of yours:
Nature did it.
Charlotte Bronte

I was a Bronte girl. In the bookworm years of my youth, one was either a Bronte girl or an Austen girl, and I was enough of a dreamer to fall solidly into the first camp. The wild, romantic visions of Emily and Charlotte caught my fancy early on and held me firmly in their grasp. My more pragmatic friends continually extolled the virtues and sagacity of Jane, but I preferred to wander on the windswept moors of the Bronte’s gothic imagination. As I grew older, bit by bit, the quite remarkable wisdom of Miss Austen began to gradually reveal itself to me. The more people I encountered, the more experiences I garnered, the wiser she seemed to become. How did a two hundred year old spinster author know so much about humankind today? As I considered her characters I began to realize that they actually appeared to be prototypes of every sort of individual walking around. That person? “Oh, he’s certainly a Mr. Knightley”. And that one? “Exactly the same characteristics of a Colonel Brandon, don’t you agree?” And who among us hasn’t known an Elizabeth or a Marianne or, God help us, a Mrs. Bennet or Mr. Collins, maybe even a Willoughby? By contrast, while they certainly are enduring characters, it is perhaps less possible we have encountered a Heathcliff, a Cathy, a Grace Poole, or a Bertha Mason in our time, nor, I would guess, would we wish to. Indeed, upon a re-reading of Wuthering Heights this past Spring, the once achingly romantic Heathcliff now seemed just a trifle, dare I say, unhinged?

This past weekend, I was fortunate to attend the inaugural meeting of a brand new Jane Austen book club. As I listened to the thoughts of those present on the personalities and idiosyncrasies of the inhabitants of the land of Austen, I was impressed once again by the singular insight and prescient wisdom she possessed in her understanding of humankind. I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. After all , we were told in Ecclesiastes that there is nothing new under the sun. The way we were is the way we are, and Jane makes this clear. The plan for this new club is to read the entire canon of Austen, and I look forward to revisiting these books at this time in my life. I know I will gain new insight, both on myself and on those around me. It should be a fascinating journey.

But still, no doubt, on some upcoming blustery autumn night, you may find me once more up on the moors above Thornfield Hall, with my hood up, my cape billowing behind me in the wind and Pilot by my side.
Once a Bronte girl, always a Bronte girl.

The Nearly Forgotten Pleasures of Driving Alone

By myself, coming home from an out of state visit to a dear friend. Four hour sunset drive. Moonroof open wide. Technicolor sunset on view. Cool drink by my side. Ipod happily shuffling. Vivaldi and Petula Clark. Nat, Ella and and Bach. Cell phone volume down, music volume up. Way up. Feeling removed from responsibility, unreachable, free.

Arriving home to three smiling furry faces? Priceless.

Personal Style

I keep this photo on my desk. Apart from the fact that I find it utterly charming, it reminds me of something. It reminds me that some things cannot be taught. They just are. In this particular case, personal style is the concept I’m thinking of. This little girl had it, obviously, and at a very early age. It was something innate. One can see it in the supremely relaxed confidence of that stance, in the way she is wearing those clothes, in that serene stare, aimed like a rapier at the camera pointed her way. She is unique.

There is something wonderful about unique style. I’m not thinking of taste here. Taste can develop, be honed by study, by travel, by an appreciation of, and exposure to, beauty. But true uniqueness of style is often something simply inexplicable. It just is. Think of Diana Vreeland, or Georgia O’Keefe. One didn’t necessarily see their style emerging, transforming itself to the whims of the public or the trends of the day. Their style was their style, always, be it popular or not. Ah, it’s a rare thing, especially in our increasingly cookie-cutter world. Rare, and timeless, for someone in possession of a unique personal style retains that possession no matter their age. It was, it is , it remains. Yes, truly a wonderful thing.

Oh, and the little girl in the photograph? No doubt you recognize her, but just in case you don’t, she is Jacqueline Bouvier, who grew up to be Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

The Summer Cold

In the opening scene of the classic film, The Philadelphia Story, the divine Cary Grant cups his hand over the face of the equally divine Katharine Hepburn and unceremoniously pushes her to the ground. In a figurative sense, and minus the divinity of either Cary or Katharine, that is exactly what happened to me on Friday. I was pushed to the ground by that bane of the holiday months, the summer cold. Now to be sure, colds are nasty little fiends anytime, but it seems the summer ones are worst. The small comforts that are afforded one by the winter cold - the hot soups, the warm blankets, the fleecy robes - well, those just seem frightfully uncomfortable in the hot heat of a fourth of July weekend.
Unsuspecting, and with my guard down, I suppose, I quite suddenly noticed the tell-tale signs on Thursday night. The oh, so prophetic scratchy throat. Sure enough, by Friday, I had begun to feel as if there were little weights around my ankles and wrists along with invisible hands persistently pushing down on my shoulders, and there was no doubt as to what was in store for my next couple of days. Grateful that no serious responsibilities lay whinging on my doorstep for the weekend, I decided to take the advice I would give to someone else, and rest. So, I donned my favorite pair of white cotton men’s pajamas, complete with my monogram on the pocket, I put my hair up, fluffed up my feather bed, and crawled between lavender scented sheets. With a vase full of gardenias on the bedside table, and Edward keeping solemn watch, and frequently dozing, by my side. For his part, the devoted Edward did not mind a couple of quiet days, it is too hot outside for his liking anyway.
I can report that there are certainly worse things than drifting hazily in and out of sleep for a day or so. And the prescription seems have worked like a charm, for I do feel so much better.

"Let us at all times remember that all American citizens are brothers of a common country, and should dwell together in bonds of fraternal feeling."
Abraham Lincoln

When twilight drops her curtain down
And pins it with a star
Remember that you have a friend
Though she may wander far.
Lucy Maud Montgomery

Friendship

I spent this clear summer day at a photo shoot, in a quaintly picturesque little Southern town. The shoot took place in a perfectly preserved circa 1895 grade school, and one of my oldest friends was the talented photographer in charge. As she worked, I wandered through the beautiful old building, poking my head in rooms where only time separated me from the little students once sitting there. I thought of my own time as a little girl in school, a school not dissimilar to this one. Wide polished wood floors, high, high ceilings, gracefully tall open windows just made for staring through, lost in daydream.. Being in that setting, and being with my old friend, caused me to contemplate just how important these sort of touchstones are in one’s life. Places you can return to, and friends that you can be with, that remind you who you are. Who you really are. Deep down. When you spend time with a friend such as this, it is restorative. There is an ease of conversation emanating from a shared history, a finishing of each other’s sentences, comfortable companionable silences, and the salubrious joy of being understood without effort. That type of friendship, I’ve found, is harder when one get’s older. Perhaps we tend to grow a little more guarded with age. But if you are blessed, as I am, with an old friend, I wish you a clear summer day like mine and a chance to appreciate that friendship anew.

(And, in the spirit of new friendships, Edward and I received a very sweet award from the lovely lady at South Africa’s Thatchwick Cottage. She tapped us both for the Arte Y Pico award and we are both honored. She has requested that we pass this award on to some of our friends and I have allowed Edward to made these selections. It does appears his choices have a bit of a theme.
Edward encourages you to visit his friends, Talulla at Cupcakes at Home, Sunny and Celeste at A Bag of Olives,Tanner at Wonders Never Cease, Trudy at Just a Plane Ride Away, and Cooper at KatieDid.)

Feeling Small Is Good For The Soul

I received an email from a neighbor this morning thanking me for a photo I had taken of her ten year old daughter sitting in their magnolia tree. I had shot the photo during one of my evening walks with Edward. It wasn’t the first time the little girl had called to us from her leafy vantage point, and this time I couldn’t resist taking her picture. Her mother spoke of how grateful she was that her daughter valued the old trees all around their home and ended her letter by saying, “Feeling small is good for the soul”. Oh, what a wise statement that is. This little girl is fortunate, as are Edward and I, to share her life with beautiful, venerable trees all around her. As a child, I too shared that good fortune. We lived on the edge of a dense wood and that was where I could be found, always with my dog of course, every day, all day. There is something about wandering around under old trees that sparks the imagination, gently reminding one of one’s place in the grand scheme of things. Feeling small in the face of a wondrous creation does indeed enable a person to arrange their thoughts, their dreams, their lives, in an more enlightened way and that in turn bestows delight to all their days.
Poet Mary Oliver can express the wisdom and wonderment to be found in the nature all around us, infinitely better than I .

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

Mary Oliver

For Me?

Edward and I received a delightful surprise yesterday!
The lovely chatelaine over at Life at Willow Manor gave us an award!
What a treat!
We are honored, humbled and grateful!

Worth Staying Up Late For

I love books. I love new books, I love classic books. I love bookshops, I love libraries, I love books about bookshops and libraries. I love the look of books, the smell of them, the way the pages feel beneath my fingers as I turn them, the way the variations of colorful bindings look on my library shelves. I could not get a bigger thrill if they were pastries lined up in a baker’s window. I am the person looking over your shoulder at the airport to see what it is you are reading. I am the one who scrutinizes the latest magazines with my head tilted to one side to better read the titles displayed in the photographs of other people’s bookshelves. And not for me the new computerized little hard cold box with letters digitally reproduced inside, masquerading as written word. I will always and forever be utterly besotted with books. I ask you, is there anything better than an old bookstore on a rainy day? Maybe one with creaky wooden floors, a couple of imperious bookshop cats and a cast of like-minded characters wandering the shelves, eyeglasses perched on noses, each lost in his or her own private world of perusal. In such a place, the hours fly by totally unnoticed. If you happen to share this passion and are fortunate enough to ever be in the southwest corner of Scotland, do make every attempt to visit a village called Wigtown. It is billed as “Scotland’s National Book Town”, and justifiably so. It is a booklovers Eden. Shop after delightful shop, all bountiful with books glorious books. There’s a mystery bookshop, a cookery bookshop, a science-fiction bookshop, as well as many wonderfully eclectic bookshops stuffed to overflowing with rows and rows, and stacks and stacks, of wonderful wonderful books!
To echo the mood of the marvelous old painting by Adelaide Claxton shown above, here are just a few of the books that have been keeping me up late recently.
Do share some of yours!

The Uncommon Reader - Alan Bennett
Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
The House at Riverton - Kate Morton
Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
The End of the Affair - Graham Greene
The Road - Cormac McCarthy
Rose’s Garden - Carrie Brown

In the Shadow of the Ubiquitous “They”

A while back I met with a client for a consultation. She took me through her house, pointing out all the things she was unhappy with, and they were legion. I could see the consternation on her face as she conveyed to me her frustration over her inability to get her house “just right”. She then told me the one thing a designer hates to hear upon the first meeting with a client. I was her fifth decorator. As I toured her home I tried to give her ideas on how she could brighten a corner here, improve a seating arrangement there, all the while she feverishly wrote down every word I said. Finally, when I suggested that she showcase an impressive collection of antique plates on a wall in her kitchen, she looked up from her writing and asked in a worried tone, “is that what they’re doing now?”. Oh , “they”, are everywhere, watching, peering in the windows, hiding in the dressing rooms, lurking in the mirrors, of everyone. How do we ever please “them”? I could now understand clearly why this poor woman was on to her fifth decorator.
In my profession I would imagine there are as many different takes on design as there are designers. I truly feel that for any of us to do our jobs successfully, we need to be able to interpret our client’s tastes and personalities and reflect those into their surroundings. The joy for me is in creating an atmosphere where the client feels most comfortable, most at home, one that reflects who they really are. However, finding out who they are sometimes takes more than a wee bit of spelunking on my part. Clients can often be reluctant to express their true selves in fear of stepping over some imaginary line, or displeasing some squinty group of tastemakers. You know, “they”. My advice, Forget Them! Learn who you are and celebrate those truths. It is suffocating to live in surroundings that are more “correct” than comfortable.
For those unsure of their likes and dislikes,
and there are many I’ve found, begin to educate your eye. Visit art museums, read shelter magazines. Banish any judgmental spectre who may be looking over your shoulder and really ponder why you respond to certain art forms or designs in negative or positive ways. The more you do this, the more you will begin to learn about yourself - what makes you happy, what makes you content in your surroundings.
Of course, if everyone took this advice to the nth degree,
I suppose I would be out of a job. I do realize that pattern, scale, lighting, etc.etc. can be daunting waters for some people to navigate. Ideas and guidance that spring from experience are often needed. But my role, as I see it, is as an interpreter, not a dictator. The most satisfying part of my profession is the successful creation of rooms that perfectly frame a unique client. The best compliment I’ve ever been given as a designer? “She never does the same room twice!” No two people are alike and, hopefully, my work will illustrate that. So, celebrate your individuality! Celebrate it in the look of your home, in the clothes you choose to wear, in the way you live your life.
After all, life is way too short to try to please “them”!

vintage vogue magazine illustration

Rain

Unexpectedly and without prediction, it rained last night. For someone like myself, living in a area dealing with drought, and with all these thirsty hydrangea bushes on my conscience, it was a wonderful gift. It was also that kind of rain that makes you want to wake up, fluff the pillows behind your back and read by candlelight. You know the kind.... distant thunder, occasional room-illuminating lightning and hard, steady drumbeats of raindrops on your bedroom roof. So that’s what I did, and I finished a wonderful book, The House At Riverton, by Kate Morton. Perfect choice for such a night. Then I just lay there and listened, relishing the sound. I was reminded of this quote from Gertrude Jekyll whose garden had also been enduring a drought. It seemed to suit perfectly.

“.....But last evening there was a gathering of grey cloud, and this ground of grey was traversed by those fast-travelling wisps of fleecy blackness that are the surest promise of near rain the sky can show. By bedtime rain was falling steadily, and in the night it came down on the roof in a small thunder of steady downpour. It was pleasant to wake from time to time and hear the welcome sound, and to know that the clogged leaves were being washed clean, and that their pores were once more drawing in the breath of life, and that the thirsty roots were drinking their fill. And now, in the morning, how good it is to see the brilliant light of the blessed summer day, always brightest after rain, and to see how every tree and plant is full of new life and abounding gladness; and to feel one’s own thankfulness of heart, and that it is good to live, and all the more good to live in a garden.”
Gertrude Jekyll 1843-1932
from a 1900 issue of Home and Garden.

"There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart."
Celia Thaxter

“Ain’t it the truth!”
Edward

“Now that I have built a palace, I wish I lived in a cottage.”

The First Duke of Westminster


In his editor’s letter for the latest issue of House Beautiful, Stephen Drucker extolls the value and the beauty of the small room. I was tickled to read it and I heartily agree. Through my travels and my profession, I have been fortunate to visit many styles and many sizes of rooms. While the large and grand is often breathtaking, and inspiring - one thinks of the library at Biltmore House in North Carolina for example - I find that the small and cozy is often infinitely more inviting. I’m reminded as I write this of Beatrix Potter’s enchanted home at Hill Top, or Franklin Roosevelt’s Little White House, both tiny places, both simply lovely. Between Mrs. Muir’s charming seaside cottage or Rebecca’s grand Manderley, I’m afraid the choice would be an easy one for me. Bigger is most certainly not always better. My own home is an old one, rabbit-warren cozy, and I often feel as content as a rabbit myself as I curl up before my stone fireplace in winter with a mug of something hot and Edward at my feet, or perhaps sneak a nap by an open window on a late spring morning, with Edward sharing a spot at the end of my chaise lounge as the breeze ruffles his white fur. There is indeed something about a smaller room, a smaller house, that just seems to gift us with a cozier atmosphere. After all, cozy is defined by Webster as “snug, warm and comfortable”. Now who doesn’t need a wee bit more of that?

In Moonlight

The man in the moon woke me up last night, as surely as if he had rapped on my window. Having made his way across the back garden during the night, he topped the trees surrounding the house and popped, full strength, through the lace curtains, past sleeping Edward, and right into my eyes like a winking giant. It’s hard to be miffed over some lost sleep when the garden atmosphere created by a full moon is so lovely. I had to get up and take a look. The deep shadows, the glow of the white flowers, the otherworldly light a full moon provides enables an alternate reality to exist in one’s very own garden. No wonder Vita Sackville-West created her famed white garden at Sissinghurst. She obviously appreciated the grand old man in the moon, as well. Can you imagine that garden in moonlight? Atkinson Grimshaw, whose painting, Silver Moonlight, is above, created many magical pictures of moonlight, and Longfellow must have experienced a moonlit night or two in his time, as evidenced by his sublime poem on the topic.
There’s a full moon tonight. Remember to take a look!

MOONLIGHT
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As a pale phantom with a lamp
Ascends some ruin's haunted stair,
So glides the moon along the damp
Mysterious chambers of the air.

Now hidden in cloud, and now revealed,
As if this phantom, full of pain,
Were by the crumbling walls concealed,
And at the windows seen again.

Until at last, serene and proud
In all the splendor of her light,
She walks the terraces of cloud,
Supreme as Empress of the Night.

I look, but recognize no more
Objects familiar to my view;
The very pathway to my door
Is an enchanted avenue.

All things are changed. One mass of shade,
The elm-trees drop their curtains down;
By palace, park, and colonnade
I walk as in a foreign town.

The very ground beneath my feet
Is clothed with a diviner air;
While marble paves the silent street
And glimmers in the empty square.

Illusion! Underneath there lies
The common life of every day;
Only the spirit glorifies
With its own tints the sober gray.

In vain we look, in vain uplift
Our eyes to heaven, if we are blind;
We see but what we have the gift
Of seeing; what we bring we find.