Musings & Meditation

Featured in the gorgeous pages of Bella Grace Magazine (The Cozy Issue, Volume 7, 2024 and also 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 The kitchen is tiny and outdated.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.

“In tickly-toe grass,
a buttercup offers up
yellow nose kisses”

— Flower, Betsy Snyder

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.

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

— April Rain Song, Langston Hughes

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.

“For the sense of being which in calm hours rises, we know not how, in the soul, is not diverse from things, from space, from light, from time, from man, but one with them, and proceeds obviously from the same source whence their life and being also proceed.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance

I recently wrote a post about finding purpose and discussed ways I began to discover who I was and what I wanted. It has been rewarding to hone in but I’m learning that’s just the beginning. Now that I have the what,my focus is on the how. Howdo I express myself and bring my desires into being? There are dozens of books on the subject of goal setting, effective execution, etc. and I will likely get to those subjects in time. For now, I’d like to talk about an important step I had to take even before I could do any of that.

“A man should learn to detect and watch the gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within...” — Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self Reliance

A little over two years ago, one of my best friends asked me if I had any insights that could help her find her purpose. She saw me over the years diligently searching for my own and thought I would be in a good position to help. It was true. I had done everything under the sun to find my life purpose, so I listed for my friend several things she could do to discover hers – a curated catalogue of only what I found helpful. “This is really good content for a blog post,” she emailed. And here I am, two years later, with a blog and something to post.

“Thank God for granting me this moment of clarity, this moment of honesty. The world’ll feel my truths…” — Jay Z, The Black Album

It’s been a while, I know, and I sincerely apologize for the delay in posting. At the beginning of each year, I tend to take time to reflect. I identify motivations, desires, and goals. I’m a list person and this process often ends with additions to my bucket list, updates to my values list, and, of course, a concrete list of goals for the new year. After all, things become much more achievable when they are better defined, right? Oh yeah, and I always buy a new planner. Oh joy, oh rapture!

“Beware the barrenness of a busy life” — Socrates

Christmas chaos. Hanukkah hustle. Kwanzaa confusion. Whatever your particular end of year commemoration, frenzy has become a generally accepted part of it. This holiday season, in particular, has been one of the busiest I’ve had in some time. The funny thing is I did everything right. I traveled to be with family. I baked and decorated cookies with my daughter. I took her to see every light and decoration in town. I threw a festive holiday party. I read the jolliest of short stories and watched classic Christmas movies. I wrapped gifts all evening to ensure our living room looked magical. I cut down my own friggin’ Christmas tree (and by me, I mean my husband…it still counts). And I did it all with the sounds of Pentatonix playing as my own personal soundtrack. We even woke up to a blustery white Christmas. And yet, even with all of that, the Christmas spirit eluded me. I got glimpses of the magic, but mostly I was exhausted.