Dear House, I See You

Dear House,

I visited you for the first time since you got your lovely green blanket. Such a hopeful color.

Your housey bits and pieces are no longer there but I still feel you.

I walked around you and saw other bits and pieces of hope.  Two more wisteria are sprouting hopeful leaves out of what looked like devastation, entire branches burned down to nubs.  Yet you rise!

Tiny miracles that will have to be managed through the coming hot and heavy months ahead.  I am happy to manage these. They remind me of your heart, dear house, always blooming.

Since the fire I’ve been contemplating the idea of how visual cues gave me a sense of home.

I remember talking on the phone with a friend while I was driving around the neighborhood that first day and I said “Wait a second… Let me concentrate. I’ve lost my visual cues on these corners to tell me where I am.”

The house where Stella barked every time we passed.

The house on the way to Super King that had been renovated in an inspiring way.

Oh my god, there used to be a school here.

One of the first things I saw when I came up to you that first day was the deep orange buddha that matched the front door.  No more door, but the buddha, broken as he may be, still stood guard, bright orange in the sea of white and grey.

Every room of you had visual cues I loved, that meant something to me.

It turns out that flower heart in the middle of you was a bigger deal to me than I thought. I created it for Love Forward Talks and brought it home and put it up, not knowing how long I would leave it up.  But it made me so happy every day.  I think it made you happy to have the job of holding it up.

I looked up from my work thousands of times to bounce around visually from a big yellow flower to a tiny green flower to a little blue hydrangea and then back to my computer screen.  It was a nice respite in joy. 

Do you remember how people loved to take pictures in front of it?  Marisa Berenson a true flowering beauty herself wearing the jewelry she designs was perhaps one of its most flowery visitors.

This heart was your heart.

The strange thing is I have no desire to recreate that heart.  I have no desire to recreate anything that was in you before.  I bet you totally understand that.

I don’t even know if I’ll get another Peloton.  That Peloton was such a beacon on the lot after they did the asbestos removal.

I loved that thing.

I did get another LifePro vibration plate, that has anchored my body and helped me destress and stay somewhat fit as I do my little weightlifting sessions and planks on it.  (LifePro found out I lost mine in the fire and sent me a new one. Isn’t that sweet?) 

But the Peloton was more visually a piece of you.  We’ll see if I get another one when you are done being rebuilt.

Remember how I had just finished reconfiguring the bedroom?  It was sparsely decorated and everything in it was an anchor for me.  The Mary statue.  The painting by Noor Jehan when she was a young teen.  The large wooden Buddha.  The incredibly special tile I brought back from Italy that he sat on.  The tiny Italian antique mirrors.  Anchors. Made me feel good.

My bedroom was a sanctuary, and Lucy, Tallulah and Stella always felt it too.  Bedtime was bliss time. I know you exhaled when we were finally all snug in our bed, done with our day.

Your front door.  I loved that door and personally painted many an orange coat for her - and for you!

That divine statue in front of the fireplace. Be still my heart. She smiled when she arrived and I swear you, dear house, smiled back when she was firmly placed in her guardian role.

The paintings of the female nudes in the living room that I bought many years ago from a lovely artist way up high in Montmartre while visiting her studio next to my favorite vegetarian restaurant.  I loved every line. 

So many paintings.  Each and every one meant so much to me.

I started to put three of them in the car that night. I took them off the wall.  I carried them out to the car.  Twice. There was so little room and I couldn’t imagine driving around with art in my car, especially into high winds littered with smoke and sparks.  They felt safer inside. I put them back on the wall.

I’ll be back.  I’ll be back.

I told you I’d be back. 

I can’t imagine having that many paintings and things again.  The idea feels heavy.

Yet they lightened my heart when I looked at them.

They meant home.

Now when I look at your expanse with your pretty green coat, this is my new visual cue for home. I walked it today imagining you in the future.

I know beauty will be happening here and you, dear house, will be as beautiful as I can possibly make you.

I see you.

I see you now and in your future form – with as much glass as possible facing the mountain.

I think that will make us all happy, a visual cue of who we are – stronger than we can even imagine.