A House Somewhere

So here we are kind of stuck at home. In a funny way that is just fine, all the jobs that have lingered, piled up are now finally being erased one at a time on the list.

The list changes day by day, moment by moment. I am one of those people who likes to get things done. Although in truth it is a vicious cycle this domestic world. When you think you are complete you begin again the very next day, so best not to get too excited. Although it is spring and the joy and thrill of the garden and what is in flower is always a lovely thing. Recently yellow daffodils have been jostling around for attention and applause, and of course I give it to them. Sometimes I just pick them bring them inside, nothing is better than a sunshine yellow narcissus or two falling from a vase.

And so I find myself at home, the home I dreamt about for a ridiculous amount of time. I had this idea a long time ago of a white room and a historic cottage that would be my armour and perhaps my libation and it appears it eventually turned up. In a strange turn of events, it arrived or I did. It was a relief I must say. I had to make do for a long while in a kind of knowing way that where I was was not quite the right place, but I was there none the less. Fortunate I am the queen of making do, so I just got on with it, although was always hunkering for that something else.

And so over the years I have filled it with happy finds and books and light that I have made my own and now I find myself restless again for that something again, something more. I recognise the feeling and the of course the echo. Even the garden that I enjoy toiling at sometimes just becomes too much. It is only when I have managed to get to the other side of the weeding, pruning and cleaning up that I feel quiet again. And then the lilacs arrive, the crabapples, the frothy blossom and the beauty of new fruit pushing through. The roses arrive, then the summer heat.

Blousy, overwhelming abandon, it all coincides.

I cannot tell whether I feel holy at home here or am I just thinking about the next thing, the next project, the next purchase to put here or there. Or perhaps it is both, both can exist. Like a large terracotta urn, perhaps a little French, perhaps a little Italian in style. These two inspirations calling from the side line.

So at home I am always creating, sourcing material, contemplating the overarching possibility of now. We love having people at this house, it can handle twenty or thirty no trouble. I love that. Friends and family come to escape their city life, a favourite moment “lets go walk around the garden”. Out we toter with a claret wine glass in our hands, the sunset and the laughter of kids running and running because it is a long block with a paddock and chickens and sometimes ducks. They go looking for them or just running until the darkness comes and even then they take their torches and play. And so the seasons cycle, renew and I am left with a glass half full contemplating what Bachelard knew, that indeed the house does protect the dreamer.

Reference:  The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard