Featured in the gorgeous pages of Bella Grace Magazine (Fall 2021, Issue 29).

“Where thou art, that is home. ” — Emily Dickenson

I adore old houses. I love the charm and character, the original detail, the idea that somehow I share space with other humans who have come before me. Their stories, nuanced and colorful as they might be, are not that different from my own. They are captured in the little scuffs on the wooden built-ins and in the creaks of the floor, right alongside mine. So when my husband and I bought our first home together - a 1925 bungalow - I was excited. I quickly began bringing to life my ideal of picturesque perfection. I planted begonias in the flower boxes along with a little vegetable garden and fiercely protected the peonies, my favorite flowers, from my minimalist-yard-loving spouse. Walls were painted and furniture was arranged with precision. Curtains flowed in dramatic fashion and at least one room in our home was so pretty, it couldn't be touched, and was reserved for the elusive "special occasion." All looked well and when the house was finished, it was something out of a Jane Austen novel.

I now live in a house built in the middle of the 19th century. It has no flower boxes or vegetable gardens. In fact, it doesn't even have a yard to speak of. There are holes in the uneven floor that have been hidden with tape. The pocket doors in the dining room stick and get off track. The kitchen is tiny and outdated. And the basement is like a dungeon, complete with a few leaks. In spite of all that, I have learned to love the old house in a way that was not possible with the pristine bungalow. It is a love that has sprung from feeling the soul of the house and recognizing it as my own. That is probably the best definition of love I've ever heard, come to think of it.