First, may I say that if any of you are paper-cut aficionados, you will be interested to know that in order to get a true Class A specimen, all you need is a corn stalk. A dry one. One you’re trying to ferret cool little Indian corn ears out of. That’ll do the trick.
This weekend, we had a bang-up time at the Mormon Arts Foundation retreat – Friday and Saturday with some of the brightest hearts and minds and imaginations on the planet. I used to be invited. But now I only get to go, tagging along with G, who helps Judge Dave (he’s an actual judge) set up all the media tech stuff. It’s a spiritual/emotional/informational feast, and I was almost too tired to go this year. Fortunately, I went, albeit late.
I drove up through town, north toward the canyon, then up the Sundance road (Donna, you will remember all this) onto the Alpine loop. Cam and I had driven up that way a couple of weeks ago—I wanted him to see the color. But it was all gone then, red blown to brown and gray. The autumn dull and dead. So when I drove that way on Friday, I had no expectations and DID NOT TAKE MY CAMERA.
What an idiot I am. I had defined “color” in my head by the maples and the sumac – the reds. I’d forgotten the oak and the aspen – the wild, flaming yellows and oranges. Every corner I turned on that snaky, narrow little mountain road opened a shock of brilliance. I nearly drove off the road three times, reaching for my sad little iPhone. One time, I just yelled – all by myself, shouted with shock coming around a corner where the aspens rose out of the dark, wet pine like rockets. And the rock outcroppings at the peaks were literally shrouded with rags of torn and shredded cloud.
On Saturday, I brought the camera.
G., following me down the canyon after the retreat. I think he was trying to make sure I didn’t drive off a cliff.
Do you see that tiny little flame of red back there in the middle of the aspens? Do you wish that cabin was yours?
This shot, I took out the window as I drove, holding the camera with one hand – one eye on the road, one on that orange bush right up on the left hand side, just on the other side of the pines.
The retreat was just this colorful, full of faces dear to me – like a family reunion (with some cousins I’d never met before and some I don’t get to see half enough).
On the way down, we were invited (all right – I’ve been begging for this) to see a dear friends’ cabin. This is a family I adore. They are brilliant, loving, deeply spiritual, hardworking and full of wonder. I will tell you that these parents raised their kids by hand, shared with them their skills, their ethic, their vision and their love – of beauty, of God, of life and education and each other.
I want to be them when I grow up.
So I’m going to show you pictures of this “cabin,” (really a cottage in the wild mountain woods) because I want you to share in this heart.
I’m trying to figure out where I am standing, looking at this place. Bavaria? The forests of Germany? A fairytale?
The over-all design knocked my heart out. But look at the detail.
The quirky setting of the stone.
The gingerbread trim – wood, not cookie.
Even the rocks are pleasingly covered with lichens.
And the leaf mast lovely in shades of crimson.
Even the most mundane bits are blessed with characters.
I loved this front stoop – stone with leaf patina.
A door very like the one in a fifteenth century Norman church we visited just outside of London. I’m kind of sad we didn’t get to knock on the front door so that someone would open that little window, peering out at their visitors.
Deep walls and aged timber – how old IS this place.
G wanders the place. Rustic, carved balconies everywhere.
See? I worked in a self-portrait.
This fireplace front is carved with characters. The motto carved into the mantle is latin: Believing is Seeing.
They didn’t miss a chance to fill every niche with fire for the imagination.
A petite and perfect kitchen. Look close at the cabinet doors, the upper ones leaded and spangled with red, the lower ones hand painted.
I want to live here. I want to write here. I want to have my grandchildren visit here. I want to BE a grandchild visiting here.
See? Every opportunity for delight. Handpainted tiles, brought over from Europe – probably by magic cabinet. I saw doors upstairs that could very well hide such a thing.
Guest bedroom. A circular chamber with a (not quite finished) mural – an enchanted forest, – and a ceiling painted exactly like the one we saw in the ancient Saint Chapel on the Isle de la Cite in Paris.
A window – I love the touch of colored glass framing an expanse of clear.
Upstairs. Downstairs. Are we in England? Actually, it feels JUST like England felt.
See? See the door? This is not the one for the magic cabinet, but I promise there is one, just to my left here.
To sit in this window and look out at the mountain –
To wake in the morning and take breakfast on a lovely balcony, looking down into the forest below.
Owl’s nest under the eves. (WHO WOULD THINK OF DOING THIS?)
The owl, a newel piece where the stair turns. Carved in situ.
Every window looks out on glory.
The magic here – you stand on the drive and look up, and you know you are home. You expect everybody you ever loved to come running out of that door to embrace you. And the leaves fall on your shoulders, and there is dinner waiting on the table – with pie.
I don’t live in this place. But I’ve always lived there – in every book I’ve read, every story I’ve dreamed up. This cottage feels like my grandmother’s house always felt to me. How wonderful, just to know that such a place actually exists. And to know that the people who built it have hearts that utterly belong in such a place. I don’t know what delights me more – seeing the cottage or knowing the family. But then, I think those are two are actually the same thing.
And now, I’ve shared this place with you. I hope it has made you just as happy.
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