(duly noted: this is an encore post because the book is like
sunshine, and sunshine is a very good thing in February)
"Books by men and women must be segregated, the old Bostonian wrote, to avoid any appearance of impropriety amongst the sexes. Of course, if two writers were married, one may make an exception and place them together.We were assured that this custom was not followed in our great-grandmother's library. Edith Wharton's books sat next to those of Henry James. (They were great friends in real life, so why should they be kept apart on the shelf?) As a child, this odd and ancient rule fired up my imagination. Could books actually have a life of their own? Would Sarah Orne Jewett fall in love with F. Scott Fitzgerald if their books touched on a shelf? Foolish, I know, but it is often striking what one remembers from childhood."
"I've never met someone who had no art in them, though it's buried sometimes. Markets are crying out. We need you to stand up and be remarkable. Be human. Contribute. Interact. Take the risk that you might make someone upset with your initiative, innovation, and insight -- it turns out that you'll probably delight them instead."
Just thinking, more and more, during the new year, that a home -- a successful home -- is far from being the sum of it's accoutrements.The stage is good, the settings important: but, really, isn't love all?A home is commitment. A daily joy, a daily slog. It's the warmth of opening a door to be somewhere you want to be. It's the indefinable scent of love: you know when you are home. It is sweet.But not easy, home is not. Home must be built, and it is in this I am finding (this is the more and more part) that it is built not on furniture and fixtures but upon care and strong abiding.Chairs, I have found, are the easy part. The hard part is making room in the home, always, for love and care to sit.As busy as our lives can be, this is an often combustible mix. To have a perfect (looking) home [glance around] and to have a home where love can sit, relax, become soothed/become energized, have strength to go forth into the world...well.Home is so much more than a good snapshot of a perfect space.And this is part of the new direction. To find home, to find where we want to be: it is seeming, to me, that chairs (tiles, floors, fabrics, fixtures) have very (very) little to do with it.For years, I struggled (a former army brat) to give my children roots. That they would be from somewhere; this seemed so important! (The military is a noble place to be from, but we were there no longer.)As a treasured friend wrote the other day (and this I think I always knew but would not admit so readily, fearing that we must all be someone from somewhere): our roots are in our hearts.It is this that draws me in more and more now.Our roots are in our hearts.How do we make our home around that?To me, the question is one of pure delight and utmost fascination. This is authentic home. It is what matters to me most. To be a somebody from somewhere means less and less. Nothing, soon, I hope.To know where your true home is. That means everything, doesn't it?How to create a real home? One must begin by being honest (in a steadfast and ready way) to their heart. From here all things are done. The rest, as I've learned from another dear friend, manifests itself. Patience. Strength. Elbow grease. Breath. Love. And more patience.(Let it be noted that I will always be charmed by the art of an excellent chair.)Onward.