The Story House, Chapter 3 - Found Treasure

The view opens from the moment you pull into the drive and is
now visible from almost every vantage point of future homesite
and garden shed

On some days, I can’t decide if moving onto this property was the craziest, dumbest idea I ever had or the most joyous and perfect. There are moments when I’m just overwhelmed by all the challenges, along with the potential that seems to exceed the limit of imagination, and I wonder what ledge I’ve stepped off, whether there will be an end to the learning curve. But the moments of delight that are liberally sprinkled throughout the shadows of uncertainty, of pure frustration, are irresistible, and I’m pulled by them. Like finding the old barbed wire speared dead center through the cluster of live oaks that stands between my garden shed and what will be the front porch of my house. We think as long as 50 years ago, or more likely longer, someone put up a fence alongside the oaks, close enough to the trees that over time they grew around it, absorbing the wire, healing the wounds it must have caused. We unearthed a few of the cedar posts, too, and found them to be only somewhat rotted, which shows just how impervious cedar (or more accurately Ashe juniper) is to weather and time.

I knew I wanted to find a way to use the wire, to preserve it. It’s like the horseshoe I found and set on my front step, and the chair we found abandoned underneath one of the oldest oaks on the property that some hunter left behind. I pulled it up to sit beside my front porch for the time being. I’m amazed at how sturdy it still is. The things I’ve discovered here, from the clumps of pink-blooming wild flowers in full bloom for weeks now without a single ounce of my effort, to the fox burrow, to the shimmering tail feather a chaparral shed near the birdbath, is a link in the chain of this land’s history. Such finds set me to dreaming; they tell me a story. Even the gorgeous view that has widened with every cedar tree we cut down sets my mind off, wondering who might have stood here in this very spot a hundred, two hundred, a thousand years ago. Did they see what I see? Did their hearts rise? Were they overcome by a fierce wish to protect this land as I am? A few things they wouldn’t have seen a thousand years ago are the thick overgrowth of Ashe juniper and the barbed wire. Neither is native. But for better or worse, each has had their chapter in this land’s history. They’ve left a mark on its soul.

As for the use of the wire, what to do with it came to me the way a story does, in a sudden image. But instead of a character or a situation, I saw a wreath, studded with flowers. Weeks before, without knowing what I might do with them, I’d bought some vintage looking, painted metal flowers, and on the day I conceived the idea, David and Chris happened to be welding the roof structure onto the shipping containers David is remodeling into a house. So I took my length of wire down to them, and after David formed the hoops, Chris welded them in place, then I brought my found treasure home, wired on the flowers, and twined a garland made from finer wire through the hoop. The entire project took an afternoon and now on the door of my garden shed hangs a reminder of that old fence.

I look at it and wonder about the man who built it, his purpose for doing so, whether his plan came to fruition ... what happened to him and his family. Sometimes, when I sit on my porch steps, staring off into the blue distance, I can hear the voices of the ones who were here before me, whispering, telling their stories, weaving them from the lively, determined wind, and I lose myself in the sound.   

A tiny nest for grand creating

I have always loved making a home and for me, the experience of doing this begins at the street’s edge and extends to the limit of my view and ability and right to design to my taste the sort of story I want to tell, to share with passersby and visitors alike. I never used to think of designing a home in that way, that in bringing together elements we love, and collecting and arranging them just so, we are really telling a story about ourselves. We are teaching and learning and expressing who we are. What is that if not a story? It may even speak louder than our voices if it’s true that a picture is worth a thousand words. I know people who come into my home know me. They see the stuff I’ve dragged in here, from bird’s nests, to beetles, to a gorgeous antique French armoire and a tattered leather-bound edition of a novel titled Lucile that was in my great-grandparents’ library and they get a sense of who I am. Possibly that I like nature and old things and gardens, all of which is true.

There are days when being creative at writing fails me. I think its resistance. I am determined to tell the story in my head, the one that’s going to make a novel, but my brain refuses to cooperate. If perseverance doesn’t break down the barrier, I leave the writing and find a project. I get into my stuff, my home stuff, and I play. I add to my nest. I am like a bird bringing the new new bit of straw, or a dried flower, or a tuft of lint from the drier that caught on the grass, into my little place. I’m weaving a different sort of story, but for me it’s a story all the same. It’s as if my muse appreciates a different venue, another way to find expression. Often the resistance dissolves in the happy light of doing this, of making new art.

The other day, a very dear friend of mine, knowing our shared love of making a home, recommended a magazine, Romantic Prairie Style, and in it I found a tiny poem that perfectly expresses the way I feel, and in such an economy of words, I am in awe. It is called My Home and it’s by Ella Wheeler Wilcox:

This is the place that I love best,
A little brown house, like a ground-birds nest,
Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees,
Summer retreat of the birds and bees.
Far from the city’s dust and heat,
I get but sounds and odors sweet.
Who can wonder I love to stay,
Week after week, here hidden away,
In this sly nook that I love the best—
This little brown house like a ground-bird’s nest?

James Prosek's creative nest

Another very dear friend, Guida Jackson, without whose mentorship I might never have become a writer, commented recently on something I posted on Facebook about tiny homes. She said my fascination with them and all things tiny reminded her of an interview she heard on NPR with an artist, James Prosek. I was intrigued and visiting his website found his space described as “cozy” and “slightly rustic”, comparable in size to a “two-car garage”. It has a potbellied stove and sleeping loft beneath a pitched roof made from wide planks of chestnut wood. Six low-hung windows usher in an abundance of natural light. I can only imagine the serenity and joy he must find in painting and writing there.

“It's my little room,” he says. “All of my stuff is here and no one can get at me.” He goes on to say, “I try to make it sound smaller than it is. There’s a small space where I work because I want it to be a humble space. Humility is a big part of being open and receptive to everything you see. Part of being a good observer is to know you don’t know anything.”

Like Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s poem, this says so eloquently in just a few words how making a home is so much more than the stuff. It’s the receptacle that contains the sense of yourself, your essence. It describes us and defines us. It informs us and others of who we are. “Artists need a story,” Prosek says. “This space is my story.”

I couldn’t put it better myself. My home/work space is my story too.

Cinderella: It's not just a fairy tale....

I think I know a little bit how she must have felt on that magical night! One week ago today I received word that a long-held dream had come true and just as magically, like that, my life changed course. I was a freelance writer/editor and author who six months ago had indie published her own fiction in e-book format. Now, in addition, my fiction is to be print published. I will hold in my hands an actual book and when you have loved books your whole life the way I have this is a gift, a true miracle. I am especially grateful, too, because it was the love of books and reading that inspired my desire to write. I wanted to give back, or give on, the wealth of joy that I found in stories. To me reading a story is like opening a door into another world, one I can’t experience in any other way. It is a way to explore human nature and to peer into its mind. It is a way to know myself. My big sister taught me to read. We’ve shared the love of reading our whole lives. Together with our mother we have always revered books. In life there is so much change and upheaval. For me books are the one constant, the single reliable presence. The source for light and joy. They have lifted me out of myself, provided me with inspiration, moved me to tears and to laughter. Taught me to think, helped me to discover and to question. Now there is this possibility for me to give this same gift to others through my stories, to give pleasure, to give food for thought and imagination.

Some have voiced concern that as the result of the electronic revolution, printed books will be lost to the world. Maybe, although I can’t imagine it and don’t ever want to see that happen. In any case, the art of story will never be lost. It’s woven into our DNA, threaded into the very nature of life. The universe itself tells a story.

In some of my indie book reader mail and reviews, readers have said they felt as though they were with the characters or living in the character’s heads while reading the stories. I love knowing that the world I create in a book and the people who are brought to life from the page are that vivid. I love hearing that a reader has been moved by a story, that something inside them has shifted as a result, a thought, a belief, perhaps a judgment against or a prejudice is reconsidered.  One reader said reading gave her relief from disturbing issues in her own life, that for awhile she was just lost in a different world. I wish there were a way for me to convey to every reader how much these comments mean to me or how thrilled I am for this new opportunity to reach many more readers, to put something solid into their hands … a gift with beautiful art on the cover and pages to turn.

EVIDENCE OF LIFE will be published by MIRA in April of 2013. The process is unfolding now and I have so much to learn, but it is such a joy because every day I will be doing what I love to do. Thank you to Barbara Poelle, my wonderful agent, whose guidance and insight honed the novel’s focus and thank you to Erika Imranyi, my fabulous editor at MIRA, whose enthusiasm and encouraging words have made me that much more determined to be the best writer I can possibly be. They have both inspired in me a desire to work harder, although when it is so gratifying to me, I almost can’t think of it as work.

I am planning to chronicle the journey here, from now until next April I’ll post about progress on a regular basis. I don’t want to lose the memory of one minute of this experience. I hope you’ll want to join me.

On Facebook the other day, I commented that I was so happy I caught myself skipping in the grocery store parking lot. I didn’t even care that people stared. That’s having joy. I so hope I can share that here, sprinkle it around so everyone feels the benefit. People should never be too old to skip or to dream or to have their dreams come true. They should never be too old to believe miracles can and do happen.  I know because one has happened to me.