Project Emily Advent: Day 15
Describe your dream home.
My dream home is a large, charming, white colonial. Black shutters, large front porch. The floors are original hardwood, the bathrooms are nothing original but the tile. There are built-in bookshelves in every room. My delight is in the details. The living room is big enough to accommodate large groups, small enough to feel cozy. There’s a television, though it remains hidden when it isn’t in use. There is an eclectic style, but it doesn’t feel cluttered. Everything that is purposeful is also beautiful, which is something I believe is always possible. There are loads of books and art and interesting things to look at. The kitchen is large, cozy, inviting. In the center is a long, sturdy wooden table serving as a kitchen island, the one from Downton Abbey would do perfectly. Above it hangs all manner of copper cookware. The walls feature lovely old stone, texture galore. Over the kitchen sink there is a large window, over which I hang a fresh garland interwoven with fairy lights at Christmas time. The floors are a rich, dark tile, the lighting soft and welcoming. It smells like curry all the time, of course.
Sometimes I envision this home in a charming neighborhood, maybe near an old church, within walking distance of a delightful little bookstore or my regular coffee shop. But more often than not, I imagine it on a piece of land, maybe just a 10 or 15 minute drive to town, but far enough away from a city to be able to see the stars at night. The house sits on a modest piece of land, maybe ten acres or so. Please do not mistake me, I do not want any animals on this piece of land. I have no dreams of being a farmer. But I’m sure we’ll have a family dog. Maybe a barn cat or two, to help with undesirable critters. And chickens aren’t really that hard to take care of, so maybe a small coop, but that’s IT, OKAY?
The backyard is lovely, covered in sprawling flower beds. There are places for children to play that seem to blend in perfectly with the backdrop of the wild, playscapes made of logs and stumps, a natural mud kitchen. The land has some kind of water, whether river or a small lake. There is some sort of dining area near the water, a beautiful wooden table with mismatched seats. I can see myself, carrying a large charcuterie platter down to the table, covered with daisies and brass candlesticks. I live somewhere with a mild four seasons, maybe North Carolina or Tennessee. I’ve certainly left behind the brutal Texas summers where I hide in my house for four months, but I’m not interested in trading those summers for brutal winters, either. It is either autumn or spring in my imagination, the weather cool enough for the use of warm sweaters and wool blankets.
I have a little writing studio, a small cottage that almost looks like the playhouse version of the larger house, full of books and a small fireplace and a table where two can sit for coffee. There are windows in my studio, big ones, through which I gaze at trees and birds and critters in moments of rest and reflection. A room of one’s own, and all that. I dream of a large guest house, where friends and family could come and stay for a night, a weekend, or even a long period, where they would have their own privacy and room to breathe. There is plenty of space. In fact, there is so much space that there is absolutely no reason why you couldn’t come and stay.
