To celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary, my aunt and uncle sent poignant pictures out to their family, not only of their wedding, but of the subsequent journey they took across the country in a VW bus. They were in search of a home and eventually found it, amidst the splendor of the Oregon woods (sadly, now so many cleared) and hovering close to the Pacific. But it’s their artful black and white shot of the front seat of that VW bus that I can’t stop looking at, for its documentation is recognition of its important role in carrying them to a place to sink their tender, young roots. You imagine them sitting in front of that large window as they journied day after day, from far east to far west, the country unfolding right in front of them, ripe for the plucking. That shared space in the front seat- even in their absence - is almost tactile with all ghosts of shared conversations and silent dreaming. There’s no GPS of course and not even a tape deck. Most likely the speedometer was broken. As free spirited as the whole venture seems, it is also clearly weighted by clear-headed intention and the utmost respect for that first place called home. Which this VW bus was. A medallion of some sort dangles from the rearview mirror a gesture to further personalize this shelter on wheels, perhaps a more true reflection of the owners than what the mirror itself would offer. I know their families were not thrilled that they were embarking on a journey towards pre martial cohabitation (it was the early sixties after all) but you have a feeling they never looked back with regret until they found a spot worthy of their union.

Over the winter holidays I took an extra helping of time inside my boys’ rooms. Their spaces have now become as deft at multi taking as their juvenile dwellers: they are simultaneous Lazy Lairs, Homework Havens and Rock Refuges. They are also command central, way stations where peer conversation continually tugs and explodes at them with blips and beeps from nearby phones and computer screens, reminding them of what they are missing out on. But I stand my ground. I interrupt their Skype discussions to make them try on pants to see if they still fit, bring them their favorite snack or remind them of the time. If they are not too busy, I slip conversation like broccoli into brownies on topics I find juicy: Led Zeppelin, Pablo Picasso, Harriet Beecher Stowe. I am always loving in my vigilance, sometimes entertaining and almost always annoying. But one thing I am definitely also, is secretly assessing: why is that packaging material still on the desk when its contents was removed weeks ago? Why is the remote control on the bureau when the television is downstairs? When did the left hand corner of that poster become unfurled? Did the new dog just chew the bottom of the wood bed frame or has it always been like that? It’s not that I expect things to look picture perfect. It’s that I know I can’t fully work, create or relax in my own lair if I know that wastebasket is on the brink of fullness, if there’s a stack of unpaid bills (the equivalent of bad homework) next to the computer or the bedside water carafe isn’t filled, so how, in the world could they? The point is they can. They see no issue with going to bed with a hockey stick on the other half. Or starting a term paper with an old banana peel curled next to the key board. They can and even thrive doing so, mismatched, stinky socks on the floor and all. I know it’s totally my issue but still…whenever they head out to a practice, a play date even (god help me) sometimes just the bathroom, I still can’t help creeping in just a few footsteps over the threshold. A quick tweak here, a sweep there. There, that’s better, isn’t it? It can never be too transformative or they’d notice. But then if they don’t notice the change then what’s the point of doing it? I can’t really answer that now. But admitting it is half the battle. Isn’t it?

Visiting Paris today reminded me when visiting it once as a teenager and zooming thru its streets one night in a cab with a friend who had been born and raised there. Part of an elegantly connected and cultured European family, she could swear as eloquently in English as she could order drinks for us in French and I enjoyed visiting her parents sprawling apartment in the 7th arrondissement. The rooms filled with modern furniture and family pictures stylishly snapped on beaches in Biarritz, made my home in the hills outside Boston feel positively provincial. In her room she still displayed the dozens of miniature perfume bottles she had collected as a girl, a hobby that put my childhood china animals to shame. As she got ready for the night, I noticed a picture of her and her equally dashing sister gamely dressed up for a costume party which required wearing both leather and lace. My mind flashed home where my two brothers were no doubt tossing a lacrosse ball back and forth to one another on our lawn. As our taxi sped thru the Paris night, I gamely listened as each bridge or corner bistro reminder her of another juicy story worth recounting. If she were visiting me, I thought, what material would I feel worthy enough to share? Here the city seemed to pulsate not only with the glamourous past but ripe possibility just on the horizon. I however, would be returning home in a few days time doomed to always return as a mere tourist. This city I longed to love would only ever embrace me as a voyeur, I was now pretty sure of it. I looked up at the imposing top floors of creamy white buildings lining the Siene. A penthouse perched on one ornate rootop came into view as our taxi passed paused just beneath. Its outstretched rooms seemed to glow from within with an unparalleled luxury. I felt my self disappear and morph up there, looking out across its terrace wrapped in something both leather and lace, waiting for a man I had seen cross the street earlier that afternoon, a dapper striped scarf wrapped just so around his neck. “Oh that apartment,” said my friend instinctively reading my upward eyes. I was suddenly back in the traffic far below. I awaited to hear how she had spent many a night kissing with Notre Dame like a jealous lover as her backdrop. I was starting to picture the wallpaper…the glossy black floors…
“I’ve dreamt about getting inside it ever since I was a girl. Just to see it, you know?” I nodded. She sighed. “But I never have. Anyway. I’m so glad you’re here.” The taxi moved on and the view was replaced.

When a person strips off their clothes or an accessory— even if it is just to remove their sunglasses— it is said that they become more intimate to the eye of the beholder. That, as more skin is bared, we are getting closer to the essence of their being. This week, living without power, (with a trusty kick-in from a cranky generator) I realized it is the opposite with our homes. Less becomes less, not more. I am not speaking of a home’s fundamentals, such as water, heat and electricity but the layers we weave throughout its space: music, flowers, the harmony of order and connection of technology, that rightfully brand our domain as ours. Like a bad game of dominos, if the power topples, then so too must fall these little luxuries by the wayside. No listening to Brahms at breakfast. Scented candles eschewed for more practical votives. Water for glasses, not vases. One by one, as these frivolities fade so too does our home, now thought of as a shelter we are grateful for. From the outside it looks the same, from within it feels entirely different.
As the light and power men study the fallen cable outside our home and tell me it needs to be plugged back from the pole along the road directly into the house, I imagine with that connection, the throbbing rejuvenation not just of power, but link back to our daily selves. However, watching my sons- stripped of the continual suck of their computers which tend to pull them into opposite rooms at night- huddled together watching a fire last night, I am reminded that the presence of love is the house’s most dominant need. Without it you might as well rip its roof right off.

In most divorces, the collected treasures of the soon-to-be torn union, get divvied up. You get the kids on Christmas, I get Thanksgiving. The dogs stay with me: you never liked them anyway. But the house, which was once the very protector of this marriage, now becomes a symbol of the sacred union’s very downfall. A symbol too symbolic now that the once-haven may now feel like hell. So while often one spouse will “get” the house, many times what was once so prized, is put up for sale. Since neither party will claim it, it must be unloaded into the universe for someone else to come along and claim it as the launch pad for their dreams.
I recently saw a listing for a farmhouse for sale, which I recognized from the pages of a shelter magazine years ago. The family had transformed an old farmhouse into an idyllic place where children, dogs, horses, flowers frolicked and thrived. Beams of rich sunlight warmed the rough-hewn floors through high windows draped with velvet-y curtains. A picture of the husband carrying a large red umbrella over his gorgeous wife- a la Picasso at the beach with Francoise Gilot- enthralled me. Here was devotion paired with spontaneity. Here they were in a forever place that hummed with the very heartbeat of a family and their beloved possessions. Except it wasn’t forever. An article mention that the couple had divorced- how long ago I did not know- the children were now teenagers. Clearly she had kept the house but was now moving on.
I clicked through the images of the property, heartbroken for everyone involved. How could they have possibly allowed this to happen? What - or whom- could be worth sacrificing such an Eden for?
I tried to console myself that perhaps the divorce had been amicable and each parent had now each found an even more beautiful place where their children could eventually raise their families and new memories with double the pleasure. Perhaps, but most likely not. Divorces are never clean down the middle and foundations may be poured in a day but rarely built upon so quickly. Perhaps, I told myself, you were more attached to this image of perfection than they were. Perhaps all parties are moving on with equal parts regret, sadness and hope and now you should get over it too. It’s not fair to pronounce someone else’s reality as fantasy and then punish them when you find it was all as normal as your best day and your worst.
I scrolled through the online sales brochure a final time, cringing at how vulnerable the house now looked, its sumptuous privacy now exposed for all to see and lust for their own. The susceptibility of property we claim as our own continued to strike me. We walk amongst the rooms we take so much pain and pride to build and decorate, our little fortresses against the world. And often it doesn’t take a fire, an earthquake or a flood to bring it all crashing down. Sometimes, it’s just us.

From the time we are old enough to understand that our bedrooms belong to us, we march through life with a constant sense of highlighting what is rightfully OURS: our side of the room, our lockers, our apartments, our cars, our front lawns, our homes…Through signs—both written and understood— we tell the world to please stay out unless invited in. And the world, obeys. For the most part. Little brothers, neighbors and total strangers will often trespass—sometimes knowingly and sometimes without fault— over these boundaries and it is up to us to respond in a manner that suits the infringement. When we were young, it was a taped piece of paper embedded with the crayoned message KEEP OUT. As we get older, the signs become more official. I recently ordered a sign from a sign maker in our town. I wanted it to be discreet, polite and yet firmly remind people that our dock was private and that the dock belonging to the inn next door, was down THAT WAY. I was tired of feeling guilty telling people—gamely posing for a picture with the sunset behind them— that this dock was private. Often they’d look at me, perplexed. “It’s just one picture,” they’d say. And what could I say? For them it was a singular moment. For me, it happened multiple times within a weekend. One time a woman had spread out an entire blanket on our dock and was happily making jewelry. I was coming from a harried day and watched her for a moment, envying her focus and serenity. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But this dock is private.” She apologized and continued to string her beads. It got to the point where every time I drove past our dock, my heart raced in anticipation of who I would find there. Was I secretly enjoying these encounters of territorialism? My husband wasn’t bothered in the least. A close friend— when I told her that occasionally I’d find a fisherman or honeymooners (one time making out on the grass right in front of the dock, their motor cycles propped on our mailbox) exclaimed, “That would drive me crazy! I’d so put up a sign.” A sign had never occurred to me. But the next day I ordered one. I felt strangely indulgent telling the signmaker my desired specs: dark green so it would blend with the grass. The wording of the white letters had to be firm yet not mean. Since we put it in the grass, we have had nary a visitor. So the sign was a success. Or was it? Is part of the thrill of belonging somewhere knowing that it is entirely yours? Or is anything really all ours? Within minutes of bringing our new dog into our home, he jumped on sofas, beds and merrily violated all the invisible fences we had placed around all the things inside our home that were strictly belonging to the humans. He looked at us compassionately when we said NO. And kept right on jumping. I remembered watching my father place No Trespassing signs at the base of some wooded property we owned when I was a girl. Every Saturday night teenagers would loot it with post-party trash and every Sunday morning my father’s sign got larger and angrier, all to no avail. So after awhile, his role of enforcer was reduced to trash collector.
Whatever comes from the outside into our world- be it an errant stranger, an animal, a family member or, god forbid, a force of nature beyond our control- let it help us realize that nothing is ever completely ours despite what documents may confirm. We are always vulnerable. It is the way we react to our vulnerability that ultimately helps us cope with our place in the world.

The garden and grass is lush and high and inside all is orderly: the rugs are clean, the wood floors gleam in the summer sunshine. And on them our dog and cat- Molly and Manu bask in their comfortable, compatible routines that seamlessly jive with their human counterparts. So why am I seeking to upset the harmony with a new dog? We had to put down our old dog Otto a few weeks ago. His belaboured panting and unstable walk were heart breaking to witness in his senior years and eventually his constant throwing up great gobs of food across every possible surface of the house told me it was time to end his discomfort. After the grief passed, relief set in: I didn’t have to worry over his health or walk two yards without carrying a huge roll of paper towels or be woken in the middle of the night to his pacing downstairs. The house was calm. But barely a few days had gone by when my son and I started searching for new dogs on an adoption rescue web site. There were the dozens of adorable faces of every possible combination each begging us: “Won’t you PLEASE bring me into your home?!” One sprightly fellow- a terrier mix- named Cheddar instantly caught my eye. He had a broad smile, no matter that he was posing inside a desolate looking fenced-in shelter. Somehow I could already see him mad dashing under our apple trees, posing foolishly underneath the Christmas with ribbon someone stuck on his head, sitting in our boat as we lapped around the lake pulling kids in the tube. The description said he was great with dogs and kids but that he had LOTS of energy. (Was this a warning or an endorsement?) I looked out at the glossy lawn and imagined him running infinite circles until the dirt came through. And still I clicked “Inquire.” I read that he didn’t get along with cats. (But who could resist Manu?) I started to write in our contact information.
I thought of my perfectly arranged little world with its ottomans and books and carpets all just so. And I still clicked the button “Adopt.” Why, I asked, am I doing this? Because, I reminded myself, a home is about disorder as much as it is about order. In the chaos of love, a home thrives.

The other day I had the strangely delightful task of creating three rooms potentially millions of people will see, but no one will ever visit.
When a home furnishings catalog I greattly admire asked me to fashion rooms for their Spring issue I jumped at the chance. What could be better after all, then such instant gratification of creating rooms no ever has wait for, pay for, clean or refurbish?! It was all pretend and yet…building complete rooms that could inspire real homeowners to want to translate them into their own spaces involved very real thinking. I had to latch onto ideas and combinations now infinitely floating out there in the design universe that felt compelling enough to make live somewhere.
So where do you begin to build your invisible foundation? The best part of interior design is getting inspired by what the pros have done before you and sliver off some of the spirit for yourself. You can’t feel intimated by the greats, you have to be empowered by them. Capture their guts and glory and bottle into your own world as best you can. After all, that’s what they live for. So I turned to three greats: Bunny Williams, Mary McDonald and Kelly Wearstler. I took a room each had done that I’d always loved: either because it bewitched me or surprised me (or both). I felt the strength of their super powers course through me and I started sketching. It wasn’t about doing what they did again Into my catalogue rooms- I couldn’t even if I had wanted to-it was reminding myself to be equally bold, elegant, practical when it came to my turn.
With the folder on my lap, I was flown to the headquarters where I was presented with a giant bulletin board filled with hundreds of images: from chandeliers to rugs to throw pillows it all had to be picked and paired and sorted into an entry hall, a living room and a home office. My imagination was both the designer and the architect: once selections were made we would scout appropriate real homes in which to install, temporarily transform and then shoot our rooms before those rooms would revert back to their former selves.
In some cases I only had tiny pictures to squint at to decide if they made the cut, sometimes the real thing was brought in front of me: fabric swatches layered like feathers on an exotic bird wing were hung across a wall and kind people brought in rugs that were unrolled and then re-rolled at my request. I felt like a queen at a banquet until I had a flash of panic. Was I having too much fun? Was I not playing it safe enough?
When was whimsy impractical and being bold indulgent? I took the crown off and took a good long pull from an iced latte. I opened my folders to stare at the three rooms I so admired again: like beloved childhood friends they seemed to wink back at me: Bunny Mary, Kelly. Watch it girl, they seemed to say. You are starting to doubt yourself. To doubt is the kiss of design death. So we linked virtual hands and made the leap. With them even though there was no safety net, I felt safe.

At my son’s baseball game he asked me for water. Strangely none was to be had and we had forgotten his water bottle. It was already 7pm and the nearby market was closed. But I was in my old neighborhood and still considered its environs my extended backyard. I would go just down the street to a friend’s house whose daughter used to be a constant playmate of my older son. I wouldn’t think twice of popping by unannounced back then: during those years I was in and out of her kitchen and driveway as frequently as my own and was as privy to the daily details of her home sometimes even more than her own husband. Now as I pulled into the cosy driveway of their two-hundred year old Colonial, I could already tell no one was there- houses are poor at hiding their vacancy even if there is a car in the driveway. There was the outdoor patio thickly covered with morning glories and vines I remembered the birthday parties here: wonderfully controled chaos contained under the roof of generous green leaves. The front door was unlocked the way they often are here. The familial sleigh bells tagged to its worn surface gave a jingle at my touch. The country kitchen just inside was still as welcoming as when I entered it the first time, fresh from Los Angeles with the sound of freeways still buzzing in my ears, almost fifteen years ago. Then a cacophony of a bustling family enveloped me and I instantly thought: “I am in the country now. I am home.” Now it was as still as a river on a windless day.
Here was the wood counter where parents used to chat around over cup mugs of coffee and cake giving their brood “five more minutes!” Now it was spotless and bare, left the way we leave our homes when we are gone for a spell longer than a day. I wanted to roam all the rooms again, as if to catch up with an old friend but ultimately it didn’t feel right. So I filled up my water bottle at the sink and admired the grassy lawn which used to cushion my sons frolicking feet with a maternal care. My eyes started to fill as quickly as my bottle and I abruptly had to turn the faucet off and walk away. On my way out I couldn’t help but peak into the bathroom - it had always been my favorite with its rich copper colored walls, creamy claw foot tub, and tiny curtained window. Arranged casually on a wall were family and travel photos. Here still were the black and white school pictures of the three children who lived here, captured at the very young age they were when I first met them. Nearby was a recent picture of their father tacked to the wall: he was beside a handsome man: I looked closer and realized it was the eldest child, now grown. As I left I wondered: wouldn’t it be nice if we could all come and go between one another’s houses taking nothing more than a cup of water? We’d surely leave refreshed, having learned more about one another. But we’d also realize how a house can profoundly reveal the bittersweet passage of time while simultaneously, shelter those from it.

“What’s that thing called…you grow vines over it but it’s not a trellis?…” So I quandered to the owner of my neighborhood nursery. At this point I was past shame. Beyond that I very much wanted me own cutting garden in the triangular space left after our new addition was finished. My husband had promptly filled it with mulch and plunked a miniature weeping cherry tree smack in its middle and was happy to call it a day. I, however, called it a missed opportunity. I knew really nothing about gardens except how much I loved them. And the superficial stuff: yellow? Out. Anything too daisy-ish or grass-y? Out. Soft pastels? Nope. Unless it’s in a foxglove. Too low and leafy? Sorry. Black Hollyhock? Bring it on in spades. That was pretty much the extent of my horticultural knowledge: what excited me visually. Unlike creating indoor rooms, it wasn’t enough just to buy it and bring it home and place it on a sofa or corner. What soil did I have and what kind of morning light did it require? What was my desired annual versus perennial ratio? And most importantly: “Will you be caring for this new garden yourself?” So for every question I asked Wise Seed (my private name for the slightly wise-ass yet kind nursery owner who boasted a long dark braid down her back) I got many more back at me in return. And I couldn’t even remember the name of what I needed in the center of my new garden. Clearly I could try to make choices but they would be constantly tested. What, after all, was clearer than a dead garden? Neglect. Failure to thrive.
My grandmother adored flowers as my mother still does. They knew the Latin names of almost anything you saw growing along the road or over an arbor. Flowers were important to their feminine world and they raised beds and decorated vases with the same innate instinct they had for writing the perfect thank you note. I happily inherited their skill when it came to the pretty arrangement part but the growing…not so much luck.
I took out the tree Eric had planted in the middle of my mulch triangle (its miniature weepy willow-like vines depressed me) to make way for the structure I couldn’t name but which I knew would be covered with Clematis.(The Clematis liked it roots shady and its top sunny which struck me as an apt metaphor for my own self.) The day came to purchase my flowers. That was the fun part: pulling a red wagon behind me and filling it with all that I loved. It was the equivalent of picking out a puppy or setting out to buy a prom dress: you basked in the buzz of the new and the beautiful. It was when you got home when reality hit: I had carefully laid the flowers on their sides in the car, the bright heads bobbing cheerfully in my periphal vision as I drove. But as carefully as I tried to remove them, a shower of blossoms fluttered free to the ground and vines snapped, weakened from being removed from their initial resting posts. Suddenly the booty that looked so lush from the confines of the red wagon, looked diminutive and scared waiting transplantation in my little triangle plot. Two extremely kind and patient gentleman then arrived to help me plant. They perused my suggested arrangement without expression. They spoke not a word of English, nor I Spanish. I stupidly waved my arms around trying to justify why I had put what where. After a few minutes I just gave up and said “Aqua” a lot, meant encouragingly for both the diggers and the plants in the 85 degree heat. Basically, I felt like a fraud and cursed myself for spending too much and knowing too little. Later, back to the nursery (for another foxglove) Wise Seed told me hail was expected that afternoon. “Are you kidding me?!” I cried, envisioning my self hovering over my newly-planted babies with towels to protect their delicate heads from snapping off under an onslaught of salt-like bullets.It was May 31st for Pete’s sake! “That’s gardening for you,” Wise Seed proclaimed and handed me some Miracle Grow. I looked at the fat bottle of promise and suddenly wanted to attach it to my own being, filling myself with an explosion of vigor and color. Maybe the garden would work after all. I tried to push the vision of wilted, shrunken stalks aside. Then I looked at the Miracle Grow. Opening my wallet I told Wise Seed: “And I’ll need an obelisk.”