THE LEATHER COUCH

My French mama insisted that what we were never permitted to sit on in our formal living room was decidedly not a sofa but a couch. Derived from the French word, couche, which means “lying down,” our sofa [I mean, our couch] was reserved for important people, important events, important everything except and particularly little children running through the house.

It's curious that the word couch overtook sofa in popularity in the 1950’s when I was growing up, even though a couch isn’t really a sofa as we know it but more of a chaise longue. This occurred because of one socially astute writer of the day named Nancy Mitford, who wrote a high-brow primer on words associated with the Upper Class. Couch was one of those words. The aspiring upper class [not to be mistaken for the capitalized ilk] took Miss Mitford's nomenclature very seriously and that is precisely why those of us growing up in the 50’s sat on a couch rather than a sofa.

The lessons of appropriate behavior, fitting in, and keeping up, take root when we are little drifters unaware of secret languages and conversations, seemingly strangers in our own house.

Here’s where I prepare to tell you something difficult but important about a seminal childhood memory that can be traced like tiny veins on little hands to who I am today—

It starts with an admission that my mama was a perfectionist. If you’re wondering if it’s hereditary the answer is emphatically, yes. I still laugh when I think of a treasured grade school friend who shared with me years later that she learned to shine the chrome on her kitchen faucet from my adorable meticulous Jacqueline.

This is the difficult part—Ten years into my marriage I began seeing a therapist to work through my own perfectionistic tendencies. Believing there were insights tucked inside my childhood, my counselor asked me to bring in the epic family scrapbook my mama had assembled over fifty years and together we sought revelation, flipping through countless images until one in particular caught her eye—————

“Tell me about this image,” she muses.

“That’s me [an adorable little girl with blonde pigtails, her white cotton nighty pulled tightly around her bent knees]. I am sitting in the shadows of the forbidden living room on my mama’s favorite chaise."

“What’s out of place,” she implores?

“Absolutely nothing,” I emphatically reply. “She wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Look again,” she nudges. I gaze at the photo until my eyes go quiet and the edges of the image turn soft and reluctantly I return to her urging whisper,

 “You. You are out of place.”

To write this as a woman still brings tears...Some from the shame of the woman who writes this, REvealing the woman who would be exceedingly grieved if she thought for a moment that the impression could be true...

Some because that little girl understood without words, that a mama needs a sense of order in her sanctuary when everything else in her world feels so completely out of control.

We belong to people but to places just as much. They become us, take on the soul of us, respond to what we need. They envelope us in the safety of their shadows and bathe us in their healing warmth like rays of morning sun. And from the chaos of our everyday, they offer compassionate, benevolent escape.

———————

Ron and I have made considerable changes since arriving to our Idaho lake cottage from Napa 345 days ago. When we tucked in, everything was here, every piece of furniture and all the accessories right down to the forks in the drawer. It appears God knew exactly what I needed to endure the unexpected six rounds of chemo that would start just one week after settling in—without unpacking boxes, beds to make, furniture shopping to endure.

Over this past year we've transformed nearly every detail. that is except for one...

The funky ivory leather couch.

While new decor around it reflects what we're drawn to and what we love, this remnant speaks to what I hope to be more of—

Imperfect. Soft. Relaxed. Well-traveled. Available. Real. Comfortable to be with. 

There is no doubt a new piece in my future, when I’m ready, in good time. But for now I'll sink deep into the endless lessons of belonging, embedded in every flaw and blemish in this worn leather couch. 

FEELING HOME

Permeate your spaces with music— Creating a sense of resonance [deep, profound, rich, meaningful] turns spaces into sanctuaries. Filling your home with lyrical vibrations lifts the spirits of those who dwell within. Turn up the volume. 

Fill your rooms with prayer— Audible or silent, the elevating energy created from communing with God permeates the home with the mystical qualities of Heaven. Walk through your spaces and lift your voice. 

Nurture a collaborative spirit— It’s surprising how isolated we can feel even when we share space with people we love. Inviting those who dwell within to be involved in space planning and design cultivates shared values, allowing all personalities to be represented in meaningful ways. Invite your children to be part of the design process, not only for their own spaces, but the entire home.  

Carve a place of retreat— Having a place to meditate and dream that is yours alone is an imperative. Often we emotionally isolate from people we love when our need for personal space isn’t nurtured in our homes. Healthy connection depends on necessary retreat.

Create a dwelling place that reflects who you really are— It is well-documented that we design our homes to impress others rather than cultivating spaces that speak to us. We learn about who we are  when what is within us, is encouraged to manifest in what surrounds us.