“Where thou art, that is home. ”
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 The kitchen is tiny and outdated.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.
Old window by Sergiu Vălenaș
It was not always this way, of course. Just back from driving the California Pacific Coast Highway fringed with its blue-green water, sugar beaches, crystal clear skies, and majestic redwoods, my husband and I decided we wanted a small house surrounded by nature. We wanted our girls to be free, to get dirty, to climb trees. We wanted peace. What we ended up with was a huge old house near a concrete jungle.
The details of how we landed here are complicated but, suffice it to say, the tea leaves pointed us in this direction. The deal was that we were supposed to be in the house for three months. We justified our decision by saying we would use the short period of time to downsize - selling our pricey, perfect, and totally unfunctional furniture, shifting from our overstuffed lives to something more organic and simple, and otherwise preparing for our tiny cottage on acres of rolling green hills (how romantic).
Almost a year has passed. I resisted the house in every way possible during most of that time. I was unwilling to unpack boxes beyond the bare necessities "because we're not staying here." Things that simply delighted me – my beloved books, art supplies, or children's keepsakes, for example - remained in boxes, along with part of my spirit. There was disorder as we tried to navigate a life half unpacked. I was uncomfortable inviting people over to the house that was clearly not a home. I would dismiss the big old ugly monstrosity and instead show pictures of my previous haven, to convince people that I was better than this, to show them who I really was. Suggestions to "just set it up" or "make it comfortable" were rebuffed as complete wastes of time and energy.
Old door knocker by Michael Fruehmann
And then something shifted for me about a month ago. It was a spiritual shift. The kind of shift that means everything but is virtually invisible, the physical manifestations of which firmly adhere to the principles of patience and perfect timing. I was in a group meditation and the leader of the circle was setting the stage, as she usually does, with ideas of connectedness, being grounded, finding alignment, and the like. Then, out of nowhere, she prompted us to see our homes as sacred, even if the home was shifting regularly or impermanent in some way. She talked about it as a container for love and beauty, relationship, creativity, spirituality, and all the things you do within it. She ended with an invitation to care for our homes. It was as though she was talking directly to me.
I went home and looked around to see if there was anything I could do to care for the old house. I started to change the light bulbs in the bathroom and that lead to cleaning a century's worth of dust from the chandelier. As I did so, I realized the house was me. It too, had once had a picture-perfect façade, meeting the demands of sophisticates who had surely lived there, with its servant’s quarters, large fireplaces, and iron gates. It was once a grand house to anyone who looked upon it, stately and positioned on the corner of a quaint neighborhood for all to see. And then the cracks began to show and someone didn't like them very much, couldn't forgive them, rejected them. And more cracks showed. Someone decided it wasn't worth repair or too much work perhaps. The chinks in the armor were exposed and the façade fell apart.
Old chandelier by Amber Kipp
I saw this quite clearly and began to cry, as I wiped and polished, first the chandelier and then other things. I uncovered the hidden beauty in the tiled floors, the gleaming gold of the soap dishes, the ornate detail of the skeleton keyhole covers, and many other tiny treasures as I moved through the house. And it was not about me trying to prop myself up by making this house bend to my will. It was about meeting my old, sturdy soul-mate in this space and at this time, discovering its beauty as I searched for my own, making it feel safe and held and loved just as it was, as I tried to do the same for myself. As I cared for the house, I cared for myself. The old house became my old house.
Old skeleton keyhole cover by Julian Hochgesang
I am more tender these days, with my new old friend and with me. I have no visions of grandeur for it. I sit on the floor in the living room waiting for more modest furniture to arrive, learning patience all the while. I'm not in a hurry to have my office look like something from Pinterest. The books on the bookshelf are enough and make me happy. The perfect dining room table and chairs are in pieces in the basement as I look for chairs that will suit a 2 and a 7-year-old and allow us to enjoy each other over a meal, sticky fingers and all. I am slowly building a life that fits and feels more solid and real, just like the old walls within which it is being constructed, and I am grateful.
I thank the old house for holding this part of my life - the worries, the joys, the laughs of my little girls - in earnest and with such grace, as I sit out on its wide porch. I thank it for helping me to become a more genuine version of myself and to see the more authentic perfection that comes from imperfection. I say, “I love you and will love you long after we are gone.” And in a most unusual place just beyond the uneven pillars and chipping paint, making its way through sticks and vines, is a blooming peony. "You're welcome. I love you too," I hear whispered in the wind.
Love in all things,
April Eileen
