Heart Woods

This Old House

The universe gets you: no secret what you want, or what you don't want. It just can't tell the difference, right?  Hence the constant, cosmic push-me, pull-you. The stuff you want held before you, ironically tempered by all your doubts, fears, confusions, uncertainties.

And by stuff, I mean everything. From relationships to possessions. From bootie to booty, as it were. But here, it's all about houses. Homes.

I love my house and home. I've lived here longer than anywhere else, and being here still pleases me deeply, on a daily basis. Yet, when our new house is built, we will leave this place. Someone else will take over and determine its fate. Now, as the universe well knows, the prospect of relinquishing responsibility for this beloved space ties me up in knots.

Will anyone else understand how to care for this old house? Worse -- will, they even care? To some degree, it's a matter of perspective. After all, someone lived here before us. I've spent years changing that person's personal stamp, and if she saw it all now, wouldn't she wonder why? She won't see it though. She moved far away. Whereas, I am moving only two blocks south of here. Which is a blessing, and a curse.

I've lived in many places and I've chosen to not revisit them. It might even be possible to avoid recontact here. If I don't walk by, I won't know if the walkways are swept, or the bushes are pruned; what color they repaint, or whether moss impacts the roof. I won't see contractor trucks and imagine heart-wrenching changes inside.

But what about the trees? Not everyone loves redwoods. They shed, they drop widow-maker branches in storms, they filter sunlight. Newcomers may not appreciate their lush foliage and nuances of color. The storm fearful might not delight at their windswept dance and sway. Sun-worshippers won't welcome their ever cooling shade. More and more of the big old trees get trimmed up like lollipops, or felled completely. You might think that only a tree lover would buy a house positioned directly under towering redwoods -- but you would be wrong.

My heart is at home here. Part of it always will be. Why leave, then?

It's a story for another day.

Shell Game

Bested!

Do you insist on the best of everything?  Perhaps we need to define "best."  Is it the highest caliber available in its class, or the highest caliber available in your class? Within your personal parameters, how do you decide what works best, for you?

Isolated decisions may require prioritizing, weighing costs/benefits. A new car, even a home improvement. But how about a whole new house? A gabillion new things, requiring a gazillion discriminating choices. Or not -- you could just let someone else design your lifestyle. Yeah ... nah.

A wise person advised: Select an area upon which to lavish attention; pull back on others. The kitchen versus the laundry room, then. The master suite versus lesser bedrooms, the entry hall versus the stairwell, easy enough. But ... the salon versus the kitchen? There may arise a logic problem. Because if you prefer A over B, and B over C, then you must prefer A over C. Right? Alrighty, then.  Do you? Or do you prioritize your kitchen over your bedroom and your bedroom over your salon and your salon over your kitchen? Ahh.

Another wisdom: Select a few features for maximum impact; economize on the rest. Okay! Stone countertops versus high-end appliances. Polished cement versus floor tiles. The fireplace surround versus the ... hmmmm, trouble. What gives? Turns out, it's actually easier to give up an entire feature (dumb waiter) than to choose between integrated sinks and standard porcelain. The fixtures you love -- the ones you like well enough -- or the stuff for which you settle?

You might think affordability would simply decide it all. Think again. Or don't even try, because the
wily human mind will out-justify you. Say you win a thousand house-dedicated dollars! Where will you spend it? More to the point -- how often will you spend it? It would reduce the cost of the custom front door. Or the panel-front fridge. Or ... how about adding an accent wall in the bedroom? And there you blithely go, convinced that windfall has saved you money.

Here's another sneaky mind angle: You get an estimate for integrated sinks, compared to standard sinks. Frugal you then starts checking out standard sinks. Upon which, you come across a hand-hammered copper sink! Which costs more than an integrated sink!  Logic be damned.

The best, then?  It's the best you can do.  Whatever.  Being human.

Mutt & Jeff

You CAN Take It With You?

You are about to move into a completely new house: A place designed just for you. No one has ever lived there before, there is nothing to change, fix or adjust. Just slip yourself into its pristine perfection.

Oh wait, one question. Do you install your old stuff?

Consider the hours you've spent, deliberately choosing every aspect of this new home. The style of it is no accident. You are not putting up with the taste or decisions of anyone else. Everything, from the sinks to the staircase banisters, you gave your stamp of approval. So it all works together, right?

In other places, over periods of time, you've bought into various elements. That classic English walnut dinning table has graced eight quite different homes, as well as a tiny apartment. Mission pieces gradually inhabited every room. Leather furniture may be timeless, but you have it in four distinct styles -- all of it well used, still utterly serviceable.

To say nothing of the little things. Lamps, candlesticks, vases, picture frames -- even the artwork -- eclectic, to the max. Some of these objects d'art have been with you throughout your life. Much has been added lovingly, and by choice. Each piece holds memories and imparts feelings, however subconsciously, via its mere presence.

Expect your architect to chafe at the thought of all this mish-mash of belongings taking up residence in your carefully designed abode. And thank the stars that shades of Frank Lloyd Wright are not involved, because -- his genius aside -- you probably would not want that control artist designing

every chair, lamp, and rug. Much less your wardrobe.

You, yourself, have been exacting enough. It had to be that fireplace surround, right?  Those tiles, in the bathrooms. Rather particular about those switch plates, weren't you? The doorknobs. How could you not!

Here is where the rubber meets the road.

So ... French

Where In Le Monde?

If you could live anywhere, where would that be?

Don't think about the money, the logistics, the language barriers. Let's preclude castles, mansions, private islands. Just picture a comfortably modest lifestyle, in a parallel universe.

My current reality is in California, USA -- once upon a time, a dream place for many. Maybe not this exact northern locale, but then again who knows? It's a beautiful area, with a fair standard of living. Perhaps, to someone halfway around the world, it even seems exotic. I chose this place, after sojourns in many places, and have now lived here longer than I have in any other. And no place could be greener; yet over the fence, the world holds out so many other, alluring shades of green.

France, for one. Every year, watching Le Tour, a part of me wistfully leaves home.  How do they do it? Those French, their ancient villages, seemingly untouched by crass modernity, strung together like uncut diamonds, along unurbanized roadways. Somehow, their daily life sustains without the visually overt presence of mega shopping malls, tires stores, neon signs, billboards, concrete islands covered with auto dealerships, schlocky franchises, or even gas stations. Vibrant forests and lush farmlands surround. Not unreasonable to assume one might actually get about via bicycle, even if over cobbled (picturesque!) roadways. Or horse and wagon. How about a sweet stone cottage with a venerable red tile roof? Little, useful shops, full of basic life stuffs, lodged nearby. Of course, these days, all wired, wirelessly.

What am I missing? Has the age of acceleration -- which clearly holds North America in its tech-tightening, culture-altering clutches -- given rural Europe a leisurely pass? China has been hit hard, on the environmentals, with modernity's growing pains; but maybe New Zealand successfully ducked?

I dream in tenses past. The more a place hints at yesteryears, the more it attracts. I choose to not ponder the difficulties of those times, selecting the bygone world's solidity and slower, stately pace.  Its elbow room.  Its ineffable promise.

What about new worlds? Frontiers in space. Pioneers, moving forward into lifestyles of the past. Would that be the best of all possible worlds?  Or tainted, from the getgo?  The innocence lacking.  Since the bell cannot be unrung.