I see you there. I see you standing at the sink looking at the window as the Carolina wrens hop from feeder to branch and back again. I see you as you finish drying the amber-colored short, fat juice glass that held your daily cranberry juice. I see you place it in the cupboard and then turn to the stove to stir the chili you are making anticipating our late evening arrival. In my mind, you wear this apron, this apron that has found its way to live in my home now that you are gone. In my mind, you wear this apron as you stand at the stove, your thoughts sifting through all that has been today, yesterday, last week. In my mind, you stand as I stand now, stirring with love, making a life.

One of my grandmother’s aprons found its way to me after she died almost seven years ago. Since her death, I have been collecting vintage aprons and could outfit many of you reading this with one if you came over for an afternoon of baking or painting. I love wearing vintage aprons when I paint, and now that I am cooking a bit more, I wear them in the kitchen too. But her apron, Grandma’s apron, stayed in the drawer in the kitchen as though I was “keeping it for good” or some special occasion even though it truly is an everyday apron meant to be worn.

A couple of weeks ago, when I decided to make split pea soup in the middle of the day, I opened the drawer to grab a towel, saw that apron, and decided to put it on. With my one-year-old daughter Ellie “helping” me, the day’s soup-making adventure was a delightfully messy and sometimes intense hour in the way that life is with a curious and always-moving toddler.

When I found myself wiping my hands quickly on the apron so that I could pick her up when her mood shifted from this is fun to “time to hold me mama,” I had a variation on this thought, “I am getting this apron so dirty!” And that thought was quickly followed by me laughing out loud as I had this image of my grandmother, my mother, and all the women who came before me doing this very thing: wiping their hands to quickly pick up a child and continuing to multi-task in that way that mothers of toddlers do.

Later, as I sat in the quiet eating a bowl of soup while Ellie napped, I thought about this notion of “keeping something for good” as though “good” is going to arrive one day and present itself so that you know it is here. And as I thought about the time I had spent in the kitchen with my daughter, I kept coming back to this idea that this moment, whatever it might be, is the perfect moment full of living and love and realness to bring out the “good” stuff.

As my grandmother’s apron now hangs on a hook just outside the kitchen so I can quickly put it on, it has become a talisman that reminds me that the good stuff lives in moments of laughter and flour all over the counter and long phone calls with kindreds and the special occasion that is eating at the table and tea paired with a new book and ten minutes to read it in the quiet and sharing a snack of cheese and blueberries. Each day, her apron reminds me that this moment right here is where the good stuff lives.

An invitation: I wonder if you might be keeping some things for “good” in your kitchen, in your studio, in your home. Consider spending some time thinking about this and writing down thoughts about why you have been waiting for good to come (or use your own imagery or words that speak to a similar idea). I think this could apply to supplies in our studios we aren’t using (fabric is a big one for me) or the china that was handed down that waits in the back of the kitchen cupboard or that expensive vanilla bean we bought at the farmer’s market that has gone bad because we waited so long to use it and how the list goes on. You might even want to use this question as a prompt: Where does the good stuff live?

Before my mother came to visit last week, we were on the phone planning what we would do while she was here. Our conversation centered on me wanting to rearrange my living room.

As we talked, I found myself standing in front of the china closet saying, “Why do I have this teapot that held those violets at Grandma’s funeral? She never even owned this teapot. Why did someone decide to send it thousands of miles to me? I don’t even have a photo of her up but each day I see this teapot and think about her funeral. I want to think about her life. I just want to get this stuff out of my house.”

I have told myself so many stories to avoid looking at all the stuff. I have told myself so many stories about how small our house is and how we will move some day soon and how I really don’t have time to go through all those papers and the things that people have given us along the way that we really don’t want anymore. I have told myself that this is just how it is when you work from home and have a small child.

I have told myself so many stories that just don’t ring true when I stop to listen to them.

Last week, my mother and I found ourselves in the curtain section of Ikea. I was wandering in what felt like circles as we tried to find the curtains that would “match the red sofa.”

As I looked at yet another set of neutral linen curtains, I tried to ignore the set that called to me. My internal dialogue was a bit like this, “Those birch tree branches with birds just don’t go with anything you currently have in that room. Well, except the wall of artwork that makes you so so happy. And they match the way you feel when you and Ellie dance in the middle of the day as it rains outside. And they would look pretty fantastic in a room filled with all those books that invite you to remember you are not alone. But they don’t go with the rug. At all. And they don’t look like grown up curtains. And…”

At this point, I stood in front of those birch trees with birds curtains and said to my mother, “Do you like these? Wouldn’t they be crazy?”

And she said, “Do you like them?”

Tears began to form as I stood there staring at them wondering what she was going to say if I told the truth. Wondering if she would recommend beige instead. Wondering if she would be able to see how truly vulnerable I felt in this seemingly ordinary moment.

“I just want the inside of my house to look like I feel inside.”
“Is this how you feel inside?” she asked as she held the curtains out so we could really see them.
“Yes.”
“Then I think we should get these curtains.”

As I continue to let living from wholeness guide me, I realized that the time had come to sit in the quiet and breathe deeply and be honest with myself about what I need (more help) and what I want (more rest, more room for living, more space for intimacy). The time has come to let go of stuff and let in more light. Yes. It is time to create a home where we can deeply live and widely love.

An invitation: As I continue to sift through all that making a home can be over here, I would love to hear your stories about how you are doing this in your corner of the world. Or perhaps you, like me, have realized it is time to create a home that looks like you feel on the inside. You can share that story too. We can help each other let in more light.