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I am trying to pack to go out of town, but I can't concentrate because I can't stop thinking about the news I happened upon earlier: House and Garden Magazine is no more, the December 2007 issue being its last. I am incredibly saddened by this news today. It has been strangely difficult for me to process, to try to understand why.
I am sad that Grace of Design*Sponge is having to worry about finding a new job (although I know it is only a matter of weeks, maybe even just days, before she will be offered some fantastic position, doing something she loves to do. She is too charismatic and talented a person for it to go any other way for her, I believe).
I am sad that I will no longer have a my monthly dose of House and Garden, which to me was this sort of fantastic perfect mix of classic timeless, somewhat reserved, prestige and novel contemporary wit and style. This magazine was 106 years old, with the past 10.5 years under editor in chief Dominique Browning, who only enhanced it, in a way no one else could have.
I am sad I will no longer have the privilege of reading Dominique's Letter from the Editor in each and every issue. I hang some of them on my refrigerator in hopes that my daughter may happen to read them as she waits for her popcorn to pop. I email them to friends and family members if they shed even a small amount of inspirational light, which all do. I have linked them in this blog in hopes that others may enjoy them as much as I do. I will miss these Letters from the Editor, and it already kind of hurts knowing there will only be one more.
I know it all sounds so overly dramatic of me, to mourn a magazine. But there are people involved with this magazine that inspired me daily. And I think I may be a bit of a difficult person to inspire. I don't come across, what I call in my corny Anne of Green Gables way of thinking, kindred spirits all that often. This magazine with the life and spirit the editors and writers breathed into it, felt alive to me; a kindred in a way. What an inspiring and talented group of people that made House and Garden. Not having these tiny views in anymore is a great loss to me.
This comes at a bizarre time too, for me in my little world. I am almost done with Dominique Browning's Around the House and in the Garden. I only have about 50 pages left, and you know what I do since I am so close to the end? I ration the pages. Yes, I only allow myself to read 5 or 6 pages in a sitting because I don't want it to end. I actually underline, highlight, and star passages. I don't think I have done that since I was in High School, when I read Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet and Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse.
I don't want House and Garden to end, but at least I know those involved will all move on and find doors opening and opportunities awaiting. And that is comforting....
I wish those who contributed to the magazine luck, good fortune, and more. I hope they all know their work was greatly appreciated and valued, and will be greatly missed by so many.
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The last passage I underlined in Browning's Around the House and in the Garden over the weekend (it seemed an appropriate quote to end this entry)....
"When we make our homes and plant our gardens we do it in defiance of endings, with a hopefulness about the future. No matter what surges and collapses in our lives, don't we all keep looking for something that does not end?"
-Dominique Browning, pg. 100 Around the House and in the Garden
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Showing posts with label Dominique Browning's Welcome. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dominique Browning's Welcome. Show all posts
11.05.2007
9.21.2007
Dominique Browning: Welcome
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I always look forward to receiving my monthly House & Garden magazine in the mail for all the obvious reasons, but the main one would have to be Editor Dominique Browning's Welcome (Letter from the Editor). Always articulate, inspiring, witty, heartfelt, they usually make me laugh or cry...or sometimes both.
How often can you say that a Letter from the Editor moved you so much, that after reading it you felt immediately compelled to tear it out of the magazine and post it on the refrigerator. For me it has been once.
I read this particular Welcome letter while in the midst of painting and fixing up my daughter's room (which at times has felt like I am the only one interested in it at all) and, on a different note, trying unsuccessfully to explain to someone why I spend such a great deal of my spare time on projects, even those that are seemingly unending and/or tedious and frustrating, or worrying about A, B, and C being done in the house. I think Dominique explained it in a way that I never could.
Do you think our children notice all the things we do for them? I don't mean the big things: the vacations, the schools, the meals at the table. I mean the thousands of tiny things we weave into their nests day in and day out. I was wondering about this as I was opening up our beach house for the summer, getting it ready for the precious few weeks when we can be there together. I had unpacked countless boxes of clothing, done loads of laundry, folded it and arranged it in neat piles in each son's closet. Then, after tucking a fragrant paper sheet into each drawer, I caught myself thinking, why am I doing this? They won't even notice it or care in the slightest.
There is, of course, the argument that I care. I love keeping house; it is only in cleaning that I really understand how my house is working, or if it is ailing. The faint water marks in the corners of windows tell me a leak is forming; that scrape beginning to deepen in the paint of the sliding door means the runner needs adjusting. It matters to me that the closets aren't crammed with junk, that things don't fall on your head when you open a cabinet. I have a horror of becoming a pack rat. I find vacuuming therapeutic; it forces me to focus on the task at hand, and I like to see trouble disappearing so easily. It is consoling to have a simple job and to be able to complete it successfully—to lay aside the complications and anxieties of the bigger jobs in our lives.
It matters that there is order, if only because it gives me a sense of security and control. I can hold the chaos of the world (or in my head) at bay when I look around me and the floors are clean, the shelves neatly arranged. I don't think this is false security. It is simply easy security. I cannot think, much less write, if my desk is a mess; perhaps this dates from the grade school lesson indelibly etched in my memory: pencils at the top of the desk, held in place by the ruler; books in a neat pile on the right; paper and notebooks stacked squarely in the middle. Now we can begin; open to Chapter One. If only life obeyed such clear rules.
Keeping house for the boys makes me feel good. It is a way to show my love and my devotion to their well-being. It is a way to surround them at home; everything they touch, I have touched. Cleaning the rooms they don't even live in very often anymore provides me with an excuse to look through the beloved old books and give the abandoned stuffed animals a little propping up.
It is the smallest gestures that contain the greatest love: Coming home at the end of a long week, going straight out to the garden to pull together a sweet bouquet of anything at all, and leaving it on the beloved's nightstand. Taking down the oversized teapot and boiling the mint and verbena leaves with ginger, lemon, and honey for something soothing on a chilly autumn afternoon. Sending a book in the mail that you know someone will appreciate. Drawing a bath, stacking the towels on a chair, lighting a candle, and leaving someone alone because what they need is solitude buoyed by trust. Tucking stalks of fresh lavender into the wool blankets and sweaters you are putting away for the summer. Making the bed in the morning, and turning it down at the end of the day. Pulling the curtains just so, clicking on the night-light. Some of these things we do spontaneously, others repeatedly. They become ritualized (which, with the implied deliberation, is a bit different from habitual), and we count on these gestures as ways of expressing affection when other means fail us. Surprise is great, but it is reliability that gets us through the long haul.
Is any of this going to change the world? Don't get me started. The details of everyday life are powerful. Just imagine what our days would be like if we tried to approach one another with kindness and consideration, each and every step of the way.
But back to the children: do they notice any of it? Perhaps not explicitly; they may accept our tiny and tender gifts as their due—they may, if they are among the lucky, never have known life without such touches. And such habits of living may seep into their consciousness so that one day they, in turn, will do sweet, small things for their own loved ones. I will tell you that my younger son came home from college, cruised through the rooms, inspecting them top to bottom, nodding approval. He opened a closet door, inhaled deeply, and said, "Smells like Mom."
-Dominique Browning
.
www.day-lab.com
..
I always look forward to receiving my monthly House & Garden magazine in the mail for all the obvious reasons, but the main one would have to be Editor Dominique Browning's Welcome (Letter from the Editor). Always articulate, inspiring, witty, heartfelt, they usually make me laugh or cry...or sometimes both.
How often can you say that a Letter from the Editor moved you so much, that after reading it you felt immediately compelled to tear it out of the magazine and post it on the refrigerator. For me it has been once.
I read this particular Welcome letter while in the midst of painting and fixing up my daughter's room (which at times has felt like I am the only one interested in it at all) and, on a different note, trying unsuccessfully to explain to someone why I spend such a great deal of my spare time on projects, even those that are seemingly unending and/or tedious and frustrating, or worrying about A, B, and C being done in the house. I think Dominique explained it in a way that I never could.
Do you think our children notice all the things we do for them? I don't mean the big things: the vacations, the schools, the meals at the table. I mean the thousands of tiny things we weave into their nests day in and day out. I was wondering about this as I was opening up our beach house for the summer, getting it ready for the precious few weeks when we can be there together. I had unpacked countless boxes of clothing, done loads of laundry, folded it and arranged it in neat piles in each son's closet. Then, after tucking a fragrant paper sheet into each drawer, I caught myself thinking, why am I doing this? They won't even notice it or care in the slightest.
There is, of course, the argument that I care. I love keeping house; it is only in cleaning that I really understand how my house is working, or if it is ailing. The faint water marks in the corners of windows tell me a leak is forming; that scrape beginning to deepen in the paint of the sliding door means the runner needs adjusting. It matters to me that the closets aren't crammed with junk, that things don't fall on your head when you open a cabinet. I have a horror of becoming a pack rat. I find vacuuming therapeutic; it forces me to focus on the task at hand, and I like to see trouble disappearing so easily. It is consoling to have a simple job and to be able to complete it successfully—to lay aside the complications and anxieties of the bigger jobs in our lives.
It matters that there is order, if only because it gives me a sense of security and control. I can hold the chaos of the world (or in my head) at bay when I look around me and the floors are clean, the shelves neatly arranged. I don't think this is false security. It is simply easy security. I cannot think, much less write, if my desk is a mess; perhaps this dates from the grade school lesson indelibly etched in my memory: pencils at the top of the desk, held in place by the ruler; books in a neat pile on the right; paper and notebooks stacked squarely in the middle. Now we can begin; open to Chapter One. If only life obeyed such clear rules.
Keeping house for the boys makes me feel good. It is a way to show my love and my devotion to their well-being. It is a way to surround them at home; everything they touch, I have touched. Cleaning the rooms they don't even live in very often anymore provides me with an excuse to look through the beloved old books and give the abandoned stuffed animals a little propping up.
It is the smallest gestures that contain the greatest love: Coming home at the end of a long week, going straight out to the garden to pull together a sweet bouquet of anything at all, and leaving it on the beloved's nightstand. Taking down the oversized teapot and boiling the mint and verbena leaves with ginger, lemon, and honey for something soothing on a chilly autumn afternoon. Sending a book in the mail that you know someone will appreciate. Drawing a bath, stacking the towels on a chair, lighting a candle, and leaving someone alone because what they need is solitude buoyed by trust. Tucking stalks of fresh lavender into the wool blankets and sweaters you are putting away for the summer. Making the bed in the morning, and turning it down at the end of the day. Pulling the curtains just so, clicking on the night-light. Some of these things we do spontaneously, others repeatedly. They become ritualized (which, with the implied deliberation, is a bit different from habitual), and we count on these gestures as ways of expressing affection when other means fail us. Surprise is great, but it is reliability that gets us through the long haul.
Is any of this going to change the world? Don't get me started. The details of everyday life are powerful. Just imagine what our days would be like if we tried to approach one another with kindness and consideration, each and every step of the way.
But back to the children: do they notice any of it? Perhaps not explicitly; they may accept our tiny and tender gifts as their due—they may, if they are among the lucky, never have known life without such touches. And such habits of living may seep into their consciousness so that one day they, in turn, will do sweet, small things for their own loved ones. I will tell you that my younger son came home from college, cruised through the rooms, inspecting them top to bottom, nodding approval. He opened a closet door, inhaled deeply, and said, "Smells like Mom."
-Dominique Browning
.
www.day-lab.com
..
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