My Old House, Unlovely and Loved

“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 The kitchen is tiny and outdated.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.

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

P.S. This article was published in the pages of Bella Grace Magazine (The Cozy Issue, Volume 7, 2024 and also Fall 2021, Issue 29 ) and I couldn’t be happier about it.

7 Bits of Beauty to Collect This Spring

“A bit of here, a bit of there... Bits of lovely everywhere.”

— Cynthia Rylant, Thimbleberry Stories

The breeze is faintly dewy. Bird song is welcomed by the golden-pink dawn. Crocuses and snowdrops dot the horizon with pigment, and something like the romantic haze of an impressionist painting begins to form. I watch intently and find myself caught in the slow, exquisitely deep inhale that is the return of Spring.

I wonder at the possibilities available in the Spring, the opportunities to gather up magical moments like flowers in May Day bouquets. Is it possible to collect them - not with our hands, but with our hearts? To let them grow more colorful, as memories tend to do? To experience them again and again whenever we need the season's optimism? To make them our own?

It's certainly an endeavor worth pursuing and a lovely way to be with life as it unfolds. To that end, I'd like to submit to you - the ardently attentive, the deeply devoted, the seekers of all that is simple and sacred - this little list of 7 bits of beauty to collect this Spring. Be inspired.

1. Collect Daydreams.

Dream by Nick Fewings

As the days get longer, there may be fewer night dreams but more time to indulge in reverie during the day. What secret lives might you lead if you weren't leading this one? Would you plan perfect picnics under blossoming countryside trees? Would you be a gypsy fortune teller, connected with the mystical and able to discern the secrets of the Universe? Would you furnish the rooms in your sumptuous fantasy home with antiques and baroque detail? What would you do? Who would you be? Grab a cup of tea and write it all down, all the little details that make your heart skip a beat, all the clues to your deepest desires. Today, you can begin to infuse real life with a little more of what excites you, like a picnic basket, a crystal, or a trip to an antique store. Tomorrow, you can look at your soul on paper when you need a little inspiration. Spring is full of possibilities and so are you.

2. Collect Scents.

Lilac by Tanya Trukyr

Close your eyes and breathe in. Slowly. Deeply. Pull into yourself the fragrant fullness of Spring. Experience, all at once, an infinite number of scents that arrange themselves with such harmony as to deliver the precise perfume of aliveness. Then allow yourself to be intoxicated by the tiniest parts of this brilliant blend. Find and lose yourself again in the faint and delicate, and in the heady and powerful; in the sweet smells of peonies and roses and big clusters of purple lilac; in the aromatic blossoms of white viburnum dusted with hints of pink. Finally, create little compositions of your own. Gather essential oils and take beautiful baths. Spend time in the kitchen with someone you love, creating the fresh, fruity, sweet, bold, and tangy smells of future nostalgia. Be still as the bouquet of the Earth just after it has rained reveals itself to you. Wake up to the smell of new life.

3. Collect Rainwater.

Puddle splash by Josh Calabrese

While it would be sentimental to collect freshly fallen rain for washing your hair - something women have sworn by for generations to soften their locks - many of us reserve that kind of activity for our rosiest-colored dreams. But there are more subtle ways to gather the rain. Return to childhood and catch rain drops on your tongue. Collect a few in your rain boots, as you watch the distorted reflections in the puddles you’ve unsettled. Forget what the humidity is doing to your hair or whether a misplaced drop smudged your makeup and simply feel the wet against your skin. Be reverent of the fury of storms, thunderclaps, lightening, and torrents. Be soothed by the sounds of raindrops on the roof. Be thrilled by the way showers falls from streetlights and make blacktop glow at night. Above all, be in love. And who knows. You might get so caught up, so soaked in rain magic, you end up with some super soft tresses anyway.

4. Collect Rainbows.

Bubbles by Drew Beamer

Stop. Take a closer look. There are pots of gold everywhere right now - inside the bubbles children are blowing and chasing, under the soap suds from the now frequent car washes, in the reflections cast on the floor as the sun streams through a window or hits a glass just right, and for the lucky few, in a dance with the moon. Rainbows are the elusive product of an unseen affair between water and light, both in abundant supply now. And they’re magic. Imagine. It has just rained one of those warm Spring rains and the Earth feels clean. The sun peaks out from behind a cloud. We've missed it so during the winter months and are impatient, even during short rains, for its return. It feels our urgency and begins to beam. Then, wondrously, it channels itself into water suspended in air and fans out in an array of brilliant color. A rainbow is made. Gaze upon this “colored image of the sun,” as Isaac Newton coined it, in all its perfection. Then, be awestruck by the knowledge that there are a million colors you can’t perceive; that what you see is different than what a dog or a butterfly or even the person sitting right next to you sees; that your mind adds nuance and shapes perception to make what you observe even more vivid. Consider there are an infinite number of ways to see a rainbow and your unique experience is yours alone. You were meant to be enchanted. Try capturing some of these special sightings with watercolor or colored pencil. Create something beautiful you can hang up and be reminded of the rainbows whenever it is gray.

5. Collect Self-Care Practices.

Bath with flowers by Heidi Kaden

Spring is a time of renewal. Why not try some new self-care practices or add a little color to the ones you already have? Add a few bright and cheery love songs to your playlist and think of them as odes to you by you. Enhance your meditation practice with some new incense or beeswax candles. Indulge in a decadent bath with rose blooms, mindfully feeling the petals between your fingertips. Taste the freshness of the season, perhaps treating yourself to a fancy dinner and exploring the yummy concoctions being inspired by the local produce. (I once had a citrus salad with fennel, grapefruit, and blood oranges paired with a chilled glass of rosé that was literal joy on a plate). Or simply eat a bowl full of cherries and remember how you used to collect seeds as a kid, carefully putting them in the dirt, without worry of compost or knowledge of time, just hoping for big trees and endless fruit. Let this time of year be an invitation to fall in love with yourself all over again (or for the first time). Keep your self-love story alive, fresh, and exciting.

6. Collect Beautiful Words.

Pride and Prejudice book by Elaine Howlin

We can be surprised and delighted by the words of another any time of year but Spring feels especially ripe for being awakened and inspired. “Come to the orchard in Spring. There is light and wine, and sweethearts in the pomegranate flowers,” as Rumi reminds us. How gorgeous. Collect favorite quotes, lines of poetry, and passages that make your heart sing. Go on a scavenger hunt through a used book store, making sure to take in the smell of times past when you walk in. Explore classic literature, Pinterest boards, and top 10 lists too. Listen carefully for words that stand out during the day - your child’s heartfelt expressions of care, that super creative, Spring-inspired ad copy, the title of an article on the cover of a Bella Grace magazine. These words are the makings of mantras, affirmations, and principles by which to live. They articulate your deepest sentiments and help you remember things your soul already knows.

7. Collect Connections.

Eye Smiles by Jasmin Chew

Can you feel it? Can you sense the shift in energy? Like the blossoms, we too open to the warming sun. We feel lighter, more energetic, happier. The yearning to connect - to ourselves, to our environment, and to the other people on this planet we've missed so much – is unmistakable. As I write this little piece, the season of winter hibernation is just beginning. I have had fun taking myself out of space and time and planting my mind and soul in the Spring soil of a new year. Normally, the Spring season would find us removing coats, exchanging heavier clothes for lighter ones, and eager to be in community. The optimism in the air and perhaps even an April Fools’ joke would produce free laughter - not the unbounded laugh-out-louds of summer but the bubbly giggles of spring. However, a world crisis continues to loom as I write. We are not exactly eager or free but I am steadfastly hopeful. These words may find you holding those you love close or holding space for them from a distance; freely giving out compliments in person or sharing them online; shaking hands or simply exchanging head nods. Whatever the circumstances, offer these gestures in the spirit of Love. Love transcends all and can be felt by all, even in the midst of confusion. Love connects us to each other. Collect the smiles you get in return for the smallest of gestures, especially the subtle eye smiles of mask covered faces. Those are special. Feel this life as much as possible and allow it to feel you. Deepening is still available.

Are you ready to cultivate a deeper, richer, more personal experience? So am I. Let May flowers forever spring from April showers. Let us look forward to them as we do each beautiful moment of our lives. And when they arrive, let us savor them so fully, they become part of us. Let this be our practice now, and every season of every year to come.

Love in all things,

April Eileen

The Promise of Spring Rain

Rain on blossom by Maddy Hunt

“Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby”

— Langston Hughes, April Rain Song

I sat on the front steps of my 1925 bungalow, surveying the street lined with its brick houses and big trees. A precious little leather-bound notebook lay next to me, beckoning me to pen my thoughts and reflections. I was in a sentimental mood so I obliged, opening the book and thumbing the pages until I reached the first blank one. It was full of promise and so seemed the world around me.

On the surface, the street scene unfolded in typical Michigan May morning fashion. The tulips decorating my garden beds opened to meet the sky, the birds sang excitedly competing with the hum of a distant lawnmower, and my neighbor dutifully inspected the blooming buds in his flower boxes. As I tuned in though, I could sense the magic that hung suspended in the humid, warm air. It became apparent that everyone and everything was in open anticipation. It was going to rain and there was something lovely about the whisperings of the impending showers. A gentle breeze passed through the air like silk and carried a bounty of surprises for the discerning – soft floral fragrances; bees dancing together, having taken a short break from their work; and the suggestion of coolness that comes when wind touches wet. Everything carried a subtle moisture, as though trees, plants and bodies alike had sucked the dampness into themselves from the heavens. Or perhaps it was that the mist had swelled from an infinite Earth supply up and into the ethers instead. A blanket of clouds moved slowly across the sky providing a gray backdrop against the colors of spring, still vibrant even in the muted light of the sun; and I sat there taking it all in and doing my best to capture the uncapturable as the first drops hit my notebook pages.

I watched it all knowing that somehow my deep appreciation and willingness to be sensitive had created the magic. I had connected, if only for a moment in time, to all that is and was gifted with the opportunity to be nourished alongside of everything else. There is a certain stillness just before spring rain, a pause before the release like the pause between breaths and in that brief but vast space, there is a promise. It is a promise of messes and mud pies and heartfelt tree hugging, and of tiny mirrors all along the sidewalk yearning to be disturbed by the rubber boots of laughing children, my own daughters among them. It is a promise of calm and contemplation invited by the pitter patter of rain on the roof and the beads of water left behind on the window, each small windows in and of themselves. It is a promise of care with each falling drop as it kisses the ground. It is the promise of love. Love, ever-present, Divine in its nature, gathering and pooling everything into itself until it is reflected everywhere, until one color is indistinguishable from the next, until all is blended and blurred and beautiful. “It is love,” my mud-covered 5-year-old reminded me. “Rain and love. That’s how the trees grow.”

Love in all things,

April Eileen