The House I Wanted to Come Home To
An autumn visit to Woodstock gave me the feeling I wanted to bring home.
When we lived in New York, fall meant traveling somewhere to see the leaves. One year we rented an Airbnb in Woodstock. The foliage was beautiful, but the house is what stayed with me.
It was full of baskets of blankets, books, inviting nooks, and interesting little treasures. Every corner felt warm and lived in. There were things to discover, things to touch, and places to sit for absolutely no reason at all.
I remember thinking: this is what I want in my own house someday. Not just a nice room. A feeling.
We were renting then. About a year later, we found our own place in Connecticut. And I began making that feeling real with books, antiques, candles, cozy corners, and bits and pieces I found along the way.
And perhaps that feeling goes back much further than Woodstock. I can still picture my aunts and great-aunts in their housedresses, aprons on, a cup of tea always close at hand. There was something wonderfully uncomplicated about it. A kitchen was somewhere to linger. Tea was an invitation to sit down. They made hospitality look like an ordinary part of being alive, not a special occasion you had to prepare for.
That is what I want to carry forward: a house where somebody can come through the door, be handed a cup of tea, and know there is always a place for them.
What I really want is for the kids, friends, and family to come in, curl up by the fire, pick up a book, examine a little trinket, stare into a candle, and feel loved.
I will probably never stop rearranging the furniture. But I finally know what I am trying to make. A house where everybody belongs.
By Mary · Chronic Optimism