“There is not a particle of life which does not bear poetry within it”
― Gustave Flaubert
As I sit here,
in a chair,
at a desk,
typing on a computer keyboard,
I wear the details of the house in which I live.
Upon my clothes are tiny flecks and specks,
which when disturbed by a movement,
fluttered through the air,
dancing in beams of sunlight
filtering through windows,
caught in the ripples of material woven together,
of the cloth of clothes,
over my skin,
and stayed there.
I’ve been doing some DIY,
so pieces of my home are everywhere,
this place is a mess,
waiting to be tidied,
But how shall that process unfurl?
As I pondered this quandary,
the mind ever shifting the details of it,
moving things around,
trying ideas out,
prepping on the walls within before applying to the exterior
anything at all,
almost afraid to do it,
as reality has a way of disappointing fantasy,
I was reminded of a place I once visited
(seen in the photos taken with an I-phone).
It was a grand mansion,
nothing at all like my abode,
isn’t every man and woman’s home
a palace of their dreams,
in one form or another.
As I work on my own home,
it has given me a greater appreciation for
the unsung heroes of detail,
who fill our world with rooms,
of inspiring splendour.
The country house in these photos,
was once someone’s home,
now it is a hotel,
staged to still feel like a home,
so that when you visit or stay there,
you can imagine,
whatever you wish,
such as that for a moment,
this is all yours,
you are the lord or lady of the manor.
I’m relieved that this place isn’t mine,
but it was an immense pleasure,
and a delightful indulgence to be there,
enjoying the fine results,
of someone else’s
“An infinity of passion can be contained in one minute, like a crowd in a small space.”
― Gustave Flaubert
As usual, you whisked me away to some place lofty, but then this time, back again to my own desk, my own dust, my own crumbles, my own home. Mine is packed full of history, not unlike the one you showed us, but without the glamour. She is also probably quite a bit younger than the one you displayed among your beautiful words. Mine was born in 1908. I’ve owned her for 43 years and during my stretch here, we have housed well over 50 residents of all ages and walks of life, as well as 27 animals. Unfortunately, she is currently terminally ill and we are just doing what we can to make her comfortable before we lose her…..by the way, I purchased her with money I earned working at the time, for a lovely older couple named Jan and Frank Day…
Your home sounds wonderful, alive with the details of life being lived and loved, that’s where the character of a place resides. I love how you speak about it, there is a deep affection there.
My ‘new’ house dates back to the mid 1800’s (that’s just an estimate). I’m not sure if it was built to last as long as it has, it is rather crumbly but it has a lovely feel to it perhaps because it was built from the earth upon which it sits. It has been owned by many people, every neighbour I meet seems to have owned it at some point. As I do my DIY I find traces of the past and its residents.
Many years ago I met a builder who said that older houses were only supposed to last for the lifetime of their owner. He may have been stretching the truth but I liked the idea, there was something very poetic about it.
The Day’s are a sturdy lot 😉
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