A Dozen Springtime Smiles

Perhaps it’s because it  falls on the last day of the first week of April, but the accoutrements of Springtime have always seemed completely intertwined with my birthday.  My special day sometimes landed on Easter Sunday which meant that, along with the requisite birthday cake, my celebration included anthropormorphic bunnies and innocent lambs, polka dot dresses, milk chocolate eggs, flamboyant hats, pastel jelly beans, and a beribboned basket at the end of my bed, waiting patiently for me to awake on Easter morning.   It could sometimes be a wee bit confusing, but always fabulous.

During recent long walks with Edward, I have begun to see the signs of the new season to come - the birds are out house hunting, the hydrangeas are slowing waking up, the light is softening.

I still feel like this season rather belongs to me- everything about it makes me smile.  

In no particular order, here are a dozen special reasons why.

*************************************

1.  First of all, I cannot think of a better representative of his kind that the Easter Bunny shown above.  His name is Beau Bunny and he is the whimsical creation of The Decorated House on Etsy.  You must visit and see him in all his delightful incarnations.  

He is the perfect ambassador for Spring!

************************************

2. The past week, I have been literally surrounded by bunnies and lambs, paper flowers and birds, glitter and paint and boxes.  I have been making Easter boxes for my Etsy shoppe, The House of Edward.  So much fun.  I also recently completed a custom birthday box for Isabelle, Angie Muresan’s winsome little daughter, who was turning four.  Angie had told me that Isabelle is a budding ballerina, and I was fortunate to find a vintage ballerina to pose atop her double tiered box.  What a thrill it was to get this photograph of the lovely Isabelle with her box!  Is that just the most adorable face ever? Be sure and visit Angie at her insightful blog and wish Isabelle a happy year.

***********************************************

3.    I can see this adorable radio by Cath Kidston sitting next to my beach chair, side by side with a sweaty glass of limeade, playing Beyond the Sea by Bobby Darin at a soothing volume.

**************************************************

4.   In the kitchen of my imaginary beach house, these chairs from Anthropologie would encircle my dining table. 

 I love these.

************************************************

5.   And without question, this wonderfully retro refrigerator would reside  in that same imaginary kitchen.  In seafoam green, naturally.  Big Chill Fridge has an entire line of state of the art kitchen appliances, all bearing the cheerful expressions of a bygone era.

***********************************************

6.  I am besotted with this vintage wallpaper from Secondhand Rose in New York City.  I can just see it covering the walls of a bathroom, with a view of the sea out the large oval window above the capacious tub, and one orange towel hanging from a shell-shaped hook.

***********************************************************

7.  Before I became obsessed with knitting, I was a dedicated needlepointer.  I preferred to work in petitpoint, and loved to work with charts.  One of the best resources I found for beautiful, intricate charts was The Scarlet Quince.  I know the website says these are for cross-stitch, but most of them can easily be done in needlepoint, provided there is not too much backstitching in the pattern.  

Wouldn’t this one be amazing on the bed of an all white bedroom with watery blue-green walls?

********************************************************

8.  I am an enthusiastic fan of Stephen Fry.   I adored his latest PBS series, Stephen Fry in America, and he remains the quintessential Jeeves to me.   I had always wanted to listen to him read all the Harry Potter books on audio, but unfortunately, they have never been available in the US.  But joy of joys.... this past Christmas, a couple of our best and kindest friends gave us Mr. Fry’s version of the first two books, all the way from the UK.  I am now seriously addicted to these.  He reads them in such a way that I am completely captivated, his resonant, avuncular voice renders the words almost visible.  Highly recommended.

*************************************************

9.  One of the anticipated joys of Spring, is the totally different wardrobe one can now choose from.  Crisp linens, big straw bags, spectator oxfords... all waving at me from the back of the closet, ready for their time in the sun.  I just found this linen blazer and pair of yellow shoes from TOAST. 
 They make me swoon.

***********************************************

10.  I know I have showcased these handmade journals from Kreativlink  on an earlier occasion, but the new ones for Springtime are simply too beautiful not to share.  I can just imagine sitting under a flowering apple tree on a warm afternoon, writing a story about the wanderlust of hedgehogs in this enchanting handmade book. 
 It seems as though it would foster technicolour creativity.

*******************************************************

11.  I have always been a bath person.  At some point every night, I can be found, up to my chin in a cloud of scented bubbles in my big, clawfoot tub - music playing, lights dimmed, with Edward dozing on the bathroom rug.  Consequently, I am a serious connoisseur of bubble baths and soaps.  I like to change them with the seasons - vanilla and pomegranate for winter, jasmine and seaside for spring.  This soap by Mistral is my favourite this time of year. 
 It smells divinely of the sea.

*****************************************************

12.  And finally, this photograph just makes me happy. I will always have a big old crush on this man.  Daughter Mary is an accomplished photographer who is responsible for this gorgeous portrait.  
And the other daughter, Stella, designs clothes to die for.

Lambs and Lions

March is known to impart to us quite a capricious collection of days.  We fall asleep at  midnight never quite knowing what sort of music nature will play with the dawn.  Will we awake gently to the delicate tune of soft breezes -  faintly green madrigals that drift in like angel song, gingerly nudging the oak trees from the dark woody depths of their wintertime sleep?  Will the day be a calm one, long hours drifting by at a leisurely pace, each one a shy herald of the sweet season to come?  Will our rooms be filled with a pale eastern light - a light that aspires to once again sparkle and shimmer with warmth?   Will we notice a delicate touch of the sun on our faces and begin to remember the feeling of Spring?

Or will the morning air shudder as an operatic March wind blows down through the trees like a trident, sending ice blue crescendos whipping past our closed windows, intent on reminding us winter is still on his throne?  Will we burrow down deeper inside our cozy shelters, reluctant to venture outside?  Will the songbirds keep silent in the magnolia tree, hiding their heads neath their wings, not daring to offend such a wind with their choir rehearsals of Spring.  Will we put the kettle on and resign ourselves to the cold?

Perhaps the March wind sometimes roars like a lion because he knows that his time is so short.  For true, soon he will leave us to embark on an annual journey far off to other side of the world, breathing mistrals and tempests over other continents, other landscapes.  While here, our days will lengthen like white tulips, a tiny bit more each circle round, until there is nothing before us but bouquets of warm hours that glisten like sea glass under a friendly gold sun. The roar of winter shall trail off into memory.

 I shall let the the old lion roar and enjoy the days he has left.  I shall bury my face in his fur and remember the wildness of winter with joy.  I shall relish the gusts of the wind in my hair as I bid him a bittersweet farewell.

And I shall welcome the days of the bright youthful season as they tip-toe in quietly on an innocent breeze.  I shall take off my shoes and stroll along with each one, lost in my wonderings of all the fresh joys this pristine new Springtime has planned.

This is the only March we shall have this whole year. 

 Be they lambs or lions, let us all enjoy every one of its days!

In The Mirror

 I was an ardent fan of Hayley Mills when I was a little girl, briefly considering running off to a nunnery after seeing her in The Trouble With Angels.  Her British accent enchanted me and, bonus of all bonuses, she had blonde eyelashes just like the ones I saw when I looked in the mirror! I still have an eight by ten glossy of her, dressed as Pollyanna, autographed and on display in my kitchen.  It makes me smile.  I look at it and remember who I was.

About a year after my Hayley inspired flirtation with the convent, I saw the movie, Camelot, and became transfixed by Vanessa Redgrave’s portrayal of Queen Guinevere.  Camelot convinced me that I could not possibly become a nun if it meant that a glorious wedding like the one in that movie could never be mine. Indeed, I was so captivated that, many years later, when it came time to design my own wedding, I copied the one on screen shamelessly.  Winter ceremony, tall candles lining the center aisle, soft flowing dress.  No horse to ride away on, but there are only so many things one can do.  I clearly remember how beautiful Vanessa Redgrave was in Camelot; with her magnificent auburn hair and that bewitching medieval wardrobe, she positively shone.

I saw Ms. Redgrave again recently as The Songwriter and I watched her accept a fellowship from Prince William at the BAFTA’s.   Tall, with silver hair pulled back, she took the stage elegantly dressed in black, as regal as the Queen she once played on film.  It was then that The Songwriter said, ”She looks beautiful.  And, isn’t it great that she hasn’t changed her face.  You can still clearly see who she was”.

Oh, what a statement.

Why is it that so often women seem to believe their beauty is diminished when it changes with age?  I know plastic surgery it is a personal subject, but it grieves me when I see once beautiful faces altered beyond all recognition, any remnant of who they once were lost forever.  And really, no one ever looks younger, just different. 

 If someone is blessed with a beautiful face, age cannot steal it.  Anger and fear, jealousy, bitterness.... those are the thieves of beauty, not age.  

 I remember a quote I read several years ago from the actress, Diane Lane.  She said that to get plastic surgery would make her feel as if she needed to apologize for something.  How perfectly put.

I can only hope, as the years roll on, I will continue to gaze in the mirror and see all the girls I used to be - the Hayley Mills fan, the winter bride - all my many incarnations mingling happily together to make me who I am today.

Hayley Mills

"Joy is the best make-up."

Anne Lamott

Are There Dahlias in the Garden?

Writing seems to take up more and more of my time these days, and happily so. Funny though, it feels more like coming around full circle than veering off in a different direction, for I realize that I have used the writer part of my brain throughout my career as an interior decorator.

Several years ago, at the close of a large renovation project for a couple of delightful clients, the wife pulled me aside and told me that one of the reasons I was hired was because of something their architect had told them about me. “She never does the same thing twice”, he had said. I had to laugh. He is right, I know. Although I love creating rooms for my clients, I have come to realize that I show up to the process as much like a writer as a designer, for I tend to create a narrative for each person with whom I work, a story written down in my mind from the myriad of clues I am given, an invisible book to refer to as I design a home for them and them alone. It is a method of working that has always been fairly unconscious with me, but one that has never yet failed. So many times, during the second meeting with a client when I show them my ideas, they have looked up and asked, “how did you know?”

There was the lovely emigre from Norway, she of the ice blonde colouring and love of the sea. The older couple who, despite their current ultra-conservatism, had obviously been hippies long ago in their youth. The affable lawyer with the octagonal library that was stocked floor to ceiling with science fiction and mysteries.

To follow a set formula for all of these wonderfully different individuals would have been a deeply misguided plan from which to work. They might have been presented with rooms that looked magazine ready, but they might never have felt at home inside them, and that is forever my ultimate goal.

Upon meeting a client for the first time, I always study them much more than I study the measurements of their rooms. Those can come later, I am busy observing other things. What shoes are they wearing, where were they born, where do they holiday? I notice their refrigerator magnets, their hairstyles, the books in their bookcases. I pay close attention to the names of their pets, the size of their earrings, the snacks on their counter.

Are there dahlias in the garden?

Is that jazz playing in the background?

Is there a bicycle on the porch?

When the time comes to renovate or redo our dwellings, we should all aspire to create beauty in our surroundings, for beauty is a quality that elevates the soul and enriches the spirit. Place some fresh flowers in a vase by your bedside and see what I mean. But that beauty should speak to us of our truest selves, envelop us with the things we hold dear. For no matter the decorating trends of the day, every home should be as individual as the people who live there. Then, and only then, can we be truly happy at home.

"To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition"

Samuel Johnson

A Song of Spring

I have lost my place in the book I am reading. My knitting lies lonely on the floor by my chair. I stare out my window at nothing but grey. Grey ground, grey sky, grey mood.

The remnants of the recent snowfall are dotted here and there - vestiges of a once noble army of cheerful snowmen, now half melted, missing heads and arms - a forlorn tribe of lumpy mutants, rather pitiful to see. The extravagant cabbages that adorned the autumn garden have dwindled in the freezing air to fist sized globules of purple, more suitable for the compost heap than the flower show,.

Even the stalwart rosemary bush has perished under the stabbing ice.

It has happened. I am tired of being cold.

I want to see my toes again. Ten, happy pink digits released from their boots and slippers, set free from their woolen socks, strolling barefoot through new green grass and clover.

I am tired of soup. I want to eat honeydew melon and fresh peaches.

I am tired of hot chocolate. I want lemonade and fruit punch.

I want to open my windows.

I want to feel the breeze in my hair and not worry that my ears will get cold.

I want to wear white linen and big straw hats.

I want to put a gardenia in my lapel and go on a picnic.

I want, no I need, to sit on a beach with a glass full of fizzy water, lulled to sleep by the crash of the waves.

I can only think it is time for such feelings. Growing up in a part of the world that experiences four distinct seasons, my body clock must by now be perfectly timed to the schedule of the earth, for I feel a shy, infinitesimal change just beginning to stir. It is there in the way that the light lingers a moment longer each day, dancing through the windowpanes, painting vernal shadows on the Morris wallpaper. It is present in the flock of robins that I saw in a neighbor’s front garden only yesterday, carefully tip-toeing along midst the patches of melting snow. And most telling of all, at times when they think no one listens, the tall trees are now humming a curious tune - deep and low, almost inaudible. I catch a bit of it just before sleep.

It is a song of Spring.

Painting above by George Frederick Watts

Picture Books in Winter

Summer fading, winter comes--

Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,

Window robins, winter rooks,

And the picture story-books.

Robert Louis Stevenson

Make no mistake, being snowed in has its advantages. Schedules are disregarded, appointments cancelled. Routine existence is jettisoned for the cozy comforts of a snow day; hot drinks, warm shawls and books, books, books.

I have such affection for the richly illustrated books of my childhood. The magical worlds brought to life by all those exquisite drawings that sprang from the minds of artists such as Arthur Rackham and Edmund Dulac - Jessie Wilcox and Howard Pyle, greatly nourished my fledgling imagination and taught me to see far beyond the words on the printed page. I have a large collection of these treasured books and I visit them often with fondness.

Nowadays however, most of my storybooks come without illustrations. But no matter; the pictures that are conjured within my head are more than sufficient. When Clarissa Dalloway pushes open the door to Mulberry’s flower shop, I can see it all quite clearly. Entering along with her, I stare, enchanted, at the jars and jars of sweet peas and lilacs, the purple delphiniums - the iris, the rose.

When Rebecca’s car winds through the wall of blood-red rhododendrons that line the drive up to Manderley, the old house is soon visible to us both, its mullioned windows reflecting our astonishment, its garden pathway leading us off to the sea.

I open The English Patient and I can see the nurse Hana drawing chalk rectangles in the hallway of the ruined villa in order to escape life’s cruelty through a simple game of hopscotch.

I peek inside the covers of Bleak House and find Miss Flite in her tiny room, surrounded by all her little birds, waiting for "the day of judgment" when she will release them from their cages.

No illustrations are needed to make these stories breathe.

Having spent my recent snow day sitting in a cushy chair by the window, gazing out on a ermine world totally bewitched by ice and snow, I found myself thinking of the most masterful pictures of cold ever drawn in words, glacial passages penned by some of my favourite authors. Their evocative descriptions unscroll a biting, frozen world right before my eyes, making me shiver, causing me to inch just a wee bit closer to the fire.

Here are seven books that, for me, describe winter in sublime fashion.

Do share some of your favourites!

Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton

Each perfectly placed word of this classic conveys coldness - of landscape, of spirit, of past and and of future. Though a tragedy to be sure, one of the books I hold most dear.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

From the very first time I read this beloved book I could feel the cruel cold of Lowood School. I shivered as I saw poor Jane lying under her threadbare sheets, the water in her washing pitcher frozen solid. I felt the sharp needled wind sting my cheeks as I trudged alongside her through the white drifts to church, the wet snow melting inside her paper thin shoes. I thought my hands would freeze just turning the pages.

The Nine Tailors by Dorothy Sayers

This wonderfully atmospheric mystery opens with a delightful description of a snowy winter night. One of The Songwriter’s favourites; he re-reads it every December.

The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis

When little Lucy climbs in the wardrobe to hide herself amongst the fur coats only to feel something soft and powdery and cold beneath her feet, I swear I can feel the temperature in my room drop a few degrees. As she pushes her way through the branches of snow covered trees, into a land where it is “always winter, never Christmas”, I find myself wishing for one of those old wardrobe coats to wrap round my shoulders as I read her adventure. A classic winter tale.

The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame

Who amongst us has not felt the chill of that cold night as Mole and Ratty make their way through the snow? And who has not felt the sweet thrill that Mole feels when he senses the nearby presence of his beloved home - the warmth of his own fire, the familiar comfort of his own rooms? I can still see the chorus of field mice at his door, stamping their little feet to stay warm as they sing their carols in the frozen air, still feel their delight when they are invited inside to get warm. Such a snug, cordial picture of home on a cold, cold night.

All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot

How I would have hated to hear that phone ring at Skeldale House in the middle of a blowing winter’s night. Reading as James, the Yorkshire veterinarian, crawls from his toasty bed and out into the freezing dark, heading off to a farm in the driving snow, not knowing what catastrophe might be waiting... I would snuggle down further in my own comfy bed each time it happened to him.

I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith

Oh, how uncomfortable winters were for poor Cassandra in her grand, crumbling castle with its moat awash in emerald green water weeds. I see her clearly, even today, in her iron bed, clad in her school coat, with a hot brick at her feet, worrying about money and trying to get warm. A wonderful book.

And I could certainly go on.... Dr. Zhivago, Snow Falling on Cedars, The Shipping News.... so many splendidly written paintings of cold.

But I have to leave you now and look for my fuzzy slippers!

NOTE: Of course, as I was writing this, I naturally began to think of my current favourite “picture” books - lavishly illustrated wonders that are almost better than any plane ticket for whisking one out of the usual and straight into dreams.

I’ll post some of those later in the week. Should be fun!

Flodigarry House, Isle of Skye, Scotland

Happy Birthday to the Songwriter!!

They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,

In a Sieve they went to sea:

In spite of all their friends could say,

On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,

In a Sieve they went to sea!

And when the Sieve turned round and round,

And every one cried, 'You'll all be drowned!'

They called aloud, 'Our Sieve ain't big,

But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig!

In a Sieve we'll go to sea!'

Far and few, far and few,

Are the lands where the Jumblies live;

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

And they went to sea in a Sieve.

... from The Jumblies, by Edward Lear

Cupid’s Snow

Perhaps it was nothing more than an errant arrow, meant to deliver Cupid’s usual dose of intoxicating love to some unsuspecting soul just in time for St. Valentine’s Day; an arrow intended to scratch a cold heart and turn everything bubble gum pink.

It could have been just a momentary distraction that caused his chubby little arm to slightly slip against the limb of his ancient bow - just a brief, tiny lapse in concentration that sent a shudder through the heavens as one wayward arrow flew off through the stratosphere, dreadfully off course, and straight into the side of a pillow shaped cloud that was placidly floating above us, on its way to deliver more snow to the north.

A scarlet arrow, that pierced the cloud’s middle with heart-shaped hole, sending its fluffy white cargo of feather shaped snowflakes down over our rooftops and into our gardens, washing us whiter than Lapland.

Perhaps that is all that it was. A mistake. After all it was the poor fellow’s busiest weekend, and mistakes do happen when one is too busy.

Or maybe, just maybe, that was not what it was at all.

Could it be the sweet archer meant this rare sight as a Valentine gift for us grey-swaddled southerners who usually spend wintertime only dreaming of snow?

If so, how can we ever adequately thank him for the beautiful sight that he gave us? We who spent our childhood winters longing for snowfall, who yearned to bring fat snowmen to life with orange carrot noses and black button eyes - we who wished for sleds and skates and snow angels. If it is true that this mischievous son of Aphrodite takes his work to heart, if he delights in bringing romance to the world each fourteenth of February, well he could not have done better this year.

For indeed, pure romance is taking a walk through the snow with your true love at midnight, when the clouds hang down low, stretching across the sky like glowing grey theatre curtains, closed tightly now after the day’s stellar performance of winter. It is standing together, hand in hand, in the midst of a silver white night, breathing in the cold, cold silence of snow. It is sharing a kiss under shining fir trees, whilst the rest of the world is asleep.

Midnight snow.

More romantic than diamonds or chocolates.

More poetic than a rose.

Mistake or not, Cupid did his job very well.

*****************************

And of course.... Edward enjoyed it too!

"People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when they're happy."

Anton Chekhov

Love's Philosophy

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The fountains mingle with the river,

And the rivers with the ocean;

The winds of heaven mix forever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;

All things by a law divine

In another's being mingle--

Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister flower could be forgiven

If it disdained its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea;--

What are all these kissings worth,

If thou kiss not me?

Edward and I send our sweetest wishes for a very romantic St. Valentine's Day!!

Winter Birds

I know he is there. I can feel his keen marble eye, staring, watching every move that I make. Just over my shoulder, on the other side of the windowglass, from his perch on the blue glass feeder. I wonder what he makes of me. Does he see me as his benefactress, for indeed, with my bags and bags of sunflower seeds at the ready, through every season of the year, that is certainly what I am. Or instead, am I just a poor featherless creature trapped inside a rather large cage, a curiosity to be pitied for my obvious lack of sufficient avian qualities.

Birds have always fascinated me. Each as delicate as an orchid, as wild as an ocelot. How I hate to see them in cages. When I was little I used to traipse off by myself quite a bit, a fact which doubtless caused my parents no small amount of consternation. Often, I would head down the lane to a neighbor who had what I considered to be the remarkable good fortune to have a pen full of chickens smack in their back garden. Slipping away after breakfast to squat down by their coop, I would hold one-sided conversations with those iridescent creatures for hours. My father followed me once on my rounds to the chicken coop and snapped photographic evidence of one of my many visits.

If you think about it for a moment, birds have been present every day of our lives. They are our soundtracks, our garden accessories. They follow us to the seashore, flit around us on the mountain pathway. The scarlet Cardinal who brings such colour to the naked trees on the greyest winter day. The Great Horned Owls who sit in the oak tree outside our bedroom and call to each other in deep, haunting voices at midnight. The Robins who line up in the rose bush each summer afternoon around two, politely taking turns to bathe in the stone bird bath. The cheerful Purple Finches who return every year to nest in the front porch ferns, singing arias of glee all the long day long. I open the windows to hear them.

The Canada Geese who fly in perfect formation over my head on a golden autumn morning, spreading wonder in their wake.

The Pileated Woodpecker who every now and then chooses our very own garden as a place to astonish those lucky enough to catch just one tiny glimpse of his glory.

I am appreciative of their presence every single day, but never more so than in winter.

The black and white world of February desperately needs the flash of their colour, the lilt of their song.

Winter Scene

by A. R. Ammons

There is now not a single

leaf on the cherry tree:

except when the jay

plummets in, lights, and,

in pure clarity, squalls:

then every branch

quivers and

breaks out in blue leaves.