a view of the kitchen

This photo was taken two weeks ago and nearly 3,000 miles from my closet-sized kitchen in New York. I pull out my phone to look at this other, cheery kitchen from time to time. And as of today, I own it.

Last week New York City was frigid, like the week before last week was frigid. Like nearly every week of winter this year. The heaps of snow along the Manhattan sidewalks are solid gray ice, littered with garbage and dog business. Walking my children to school I say over and over in the same exasperated tone, "Don't touch the snow! It's full of poop!" They climb on it anyway. On Saturday it warmed to 50ºF and the snow began to melt. It was a lovely day—the pigeons were as elated as the parka-less people on the sidewalks. And the previously rock-hard ice crushed nicely when my children jumped on the piles. Dog poop, however, does not melt along with the snow.

The week before last I walked down mossy sidewalks in my hometown with my husband. Dark fir trees and melancholy crow caws, drizzle from newsprint gray skies, coffee shops with ample tables. Damp everywhere, no poop anywhere. It was a busy week. By the time we boarded the plane back to New York, we'd applied for Ike to attend three of the eight schools we toured, put an offer on a home, had numerous business meetings, and even found a French-immersion summer camp for the kids. We are, it seems, moving to Portland, Oregon.

Before we left for our trip to Oregon I was full of nostalgia for all I love here: the old beauty hewn out of schist and granite, the view of the Hudson from my windows, the Metropolitan Museum, the North Woods of Central Park, spreading deciduous trees lining slate sidewalks, sunlight through tall windows, the Museum of Natural History, the languages spoken everywhere, Grand Central, Wave Hill, the Hassidic families in our neighborhood, my four quince trees in the magical cloister.

But coming back, all I saw was garbage. The cold trudge to school past overflowing trash cans and heaps of garbage bags. Sewers clogged with litter. Rats eating garbage in the subway. Garbage trucks trapped behind double-parked cars, honking. The hustle to get anywhere, the tiresome planning and coordinating of each trip, the throngs of unsmiling people pushing past. Competition for everything. Competition for a handful of pole on the A train, my face inches away from the black (always black) back of someone's parka. I am exhausted by this anxious city, the impossibility of parking, the lines, the urgency. Once the decision was made to move, I lost all my energy for it the rush and crush of it.

I have been in New York a long time: fifteen years. I am hardly the young woman who left Portland years ago. In fact I'd say that since I left the West Coast I have been four different Ambers. Four different faces of the same person, four different sets of priorities, preoccupations, dreams. Some things have remained the same of course. Like my best friend. Our friendship has been one constant in my life during these years (except that now we talk about our plans for retirement). And my faith has remained too, although grown in new and interesting directions. But in suddenly moving back home I am faced with that earlier Amber, that Amber four Ambers ago. We have a lot in common, but we are not really the same person.

However, she comes in handy. She told me I'd want to move to Sellwood, preferably on the bluff overlooking Oaks Bottom. But the new Amber insisted on looking at real estate all over the place. No, no, no: after a few days we were restricted our searching to Sellwood. Not too many light-sucking fir trees there. And charming, flat, walkable blocks with coffee shops and old Craftsman style homes. A yarn store, a children's boutique. The dry cleaners where I worked during high school still on the same corner, still with the same name. Our new home is, reassuringly, in Sellwood.

And while the move date is still a few months away, I am ready to be off. It's not as glamorous as some of the plans we've kicked around over the years. Most recently we'd been researching Geneva— French and English speaking, a beautiful family setting and good prospects for Charles. But for one reason or another we never really followed any of our plans through. Ultimately family took us back to Portland—Grandma, Papo, Grandpa, two aunties, three uncles, some cousins. Charles also has two cousins there, with their own families. And Hawaii is much closer, as is the rest of Charles' family. I am at peace with the decision. And can't wait to have a window over the sink and a working dishwasher!

photo friday: the poetics of space

The house in which we were born
is physically inscribed in us. 
It is a group of organic habits...
[However] the word habit is too worn a word
to express this passionate liaison of our bodies

—which do not forget—with this unforgettable house. 

– Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

When I was eight or perhaps nine I had a serious conversation with God about interior decorating. At church I had heard that he, God, was preparing "mansions in heaven" for the faithful, and this led to some anxiety on my part. The mansion itself was not the source of my concern, however; it was the descriptions I'd read of heaven, particularly this New Jerusalem—the place where I assumed my mansion was being built—that caused my uneasiness. The Book of Revelations had it that the city was to be a perfect gold cube, encrusted with all manner of precious jewels, crystal, and pearls. Horrible! My pre-teen aesthetics felt a headache coming on. A showy city teeming with sparkling mansions (no doubt done out with cold marble and polished gold)—ugh! Thus my pleading conversation with God that he (pretty please?) not prepare my mansion this way. Didn't he, being God, know there were people who preferred a more rustic setting? I was partial to wood, stone, calico. And I was hoping he could just hole me up some out-of-the-way heavenly farmhouse with lots of books. In my prayer I referenced photos I'd seen in my mother's Country Living magazine, just so God would get a clear picture of what I was after. A sylvan setting, a nice view, a cat or a horse or two milling about. As long as I didn't have to do chores, that would be paradise enough for me.

Some things don't change. I have remained demanding when it comes to my living quarters, despite the challenges of Manhattan housing. I expect my apartment, however small, to adhere to my particular vision of home: a certain mix of elegance and homespun, books and art, with a clear flow of energy (something alike feng shui ), high ceilings, decent light, a view that includes trees, and nothing higher then six floors above the ground. And we have this, more or less.

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I took three sets of photos for this week's theme. The first set, above, were all taken after my children had gone to bed and husband had fallen asleep on the couch. If you look carefully at the top image you can see him. (And so that you may truly appreciate the size of my kitchen, the second image gives you full view the the entirety of my kitchen counter space.) The second set of photos (directly below) were taken in the kids' room on a lazy Sunday morning. And the final set (at bottom) was taken yesterday morning after everyone had left for either work or school.

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The great function of poetry is to give us back the situations of our dreams.
The house we were born in is more than an embodiment of home,
it is also an embodiment of dreams. 

Each one of its nooks and corners was a resting-place for daydreaming. 

And often the resting-place particularized the daydream.
Our habits of a particular daydream were acquired there. 

The house, the bedroom, the garret in which we were alone,
furnished the framework for an interminable dream,
one that poetry alone, through the creation of a poetic work,
could succeed in achieving completely.

– Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

My children's favorite game for over a year now has been making nests. They build an indoor home of blankets, pillows, dolls, legos, bath toys, plastic figurines, snacks, art supplies, and anything else they can find. After which they "cozy in" and commence familial negotiations for more space or objects in high, silly-sweet voices. As much as it annoys me to open the closet and find a nest of legos and stuffed animals settled in on top of my shoes, I appreciate this innate desire to create intimate spaces of their own.

Much of my desire to orchestrate a elegant but modest home rises from a strong impulse to fashion the backdrop of my children's lives and dreams. I am aware of the ways in which the space they inhabit affects them, and I want their memories of home to both secure and propel them. The objects in our home are rarely random, but instead chosen for spiritual, aesthetic, moral, educational, or cultural reasons —and each contains a story or message. My hope is that this space we inhabit places in them fertile fodder for dreams, creativity, and a longing for God (with whom I've made some peace since my fears of bling mansions in heaven).

what falls within my circle: to dream, and to collect

Charles and I have been talking about moving for awhile. We attend open houses, and every once in awhile I fall in love. Shortly thereafter I become frustrated we can't buy, and wish I'd never seen the place at all. It seems that we must keep waiting--for what exact moment I'm not sure: for the market to fall lower, for the enigmatic financial equation in Charles' head to achieve equilibrium, for there to be a burning incentive besides the smitten look in my eyes.

In our searches in New York City, I've become attached to a neighborhood on the North tip of Manhattan called Hudson Heights. It is full old buildings, playgrounds, a park with a medieval Museum (the Cloisters), a good public school, and views of the Hudson river and George Washington Bridge. But once again, I must maintain my composure. While I may want to proclaim my love for my new neighborhood, it is quite possible we'll never live there. I asked Charles the other day for the percentage of likelihood we would move to Hudson Heights. He said, "Uh, fifty-percent?" This wasn't what I was looking for, "Hmmmphf, I was thinking eighty percent would be more like it."

Sigh. So, instead I dream. I imagine up a future home. What I cannot have, I can nonetheless think about. And I can think about how I'd decorate it. This falls safely within my Coveyian "Circle of Influence," if little else does.

I find myself perusing the design blogs, particularly Scandinavian ones. I want to eschew cute and chic: the Dwell Baby catalog that arrived yesterday, for example. And avoid a gratuitous shabby chic. I want an aesthetic both functional and elegant; both grand and humble. In my mind's eye I see something older, a bit haphazard, worn at the corners. Ideally, I want the architecture (and the architectural details) to do the lion's share of the work, which leaves me with good artwork, old pottery and Scandinavian furniture. And a few bright pillows.

I share these images here because they inspire me, and also by posting them to keep them on-hand for whenever we actually buy a place and I can do something besides dream. The photos below I gathered from a few blogs in the last few days (mainly from Fine Little Day and  Decor8). Disclaimers: 1. I admit my fascination with some of these images could be the amount of space (no apartment we could afford in Manhattan would boast such emptiness), and 2. I don't entirely share the Scandinavian love of vast whiteness. Enjoy!