At Home

A week ago, I went with my friend, Ursula, to Ikea.  The impetus for this was as follows:  I was at the apartment next door, home of Ursula and Sergio, when Ursula placed crackers into a zip-lock bag.  I pounced and asked, "Where did you get those bags?"  A regular zip-lock bag cannot be found on the supermarket shelves in Italy.  She replied that they were from Ikea and that she needed to go soon to pick up coffee and napkins.  I asked if I could tag along on her next trip.  

In addition to zip-lock bags, I had a list of items that I wanted to buy to have my apartment here feel more like "me"... more like my "home".  Included on the list-- glass jars for my morning oatmeal and tea; colorful potholders; a short glass vase for the table; an outdoor mat; new sheets.  And, of course there were the extra items I picked up while there, like the heart napkin holder in the photo.  Isn't that what Ikea is all about?  

The questions of what creates a "home" and where I feel the most "at home", have been on my mind for months. (And, the question of feeling "useful" again, but that's a separate issue!)  When I first bought my own house in Bloomfield, I had clear notions of the home I wanted to create.  All the photographs on the walls were ones I had taken of significant people and places. Each handmade item had a story.  Homemade cookies were always in the freezer.  Flowers were on the table. Good quality soap was in the bathroom.  I wanted a feeling of love. Of course, some of those aspects are easy to recreate anywhere; but, the essence of "home" is something else.  

After the Christmas holidays of 2019 and before the "lockdown", I began to feel homesick.  I missed all of my belongings and the activities that I did with ease and confidence.  I emailed my friend, Ed, who had traveled extensively.  He called and said, "I'm surprised it took you this long."  I blurted out, "I just want to throw two sticks of butter in my KitchenAide and bake a damn batch of cookies!" We had a serious conversation about being connected to a place, about routines that mattered, and how it was normal to miss all of that. I had read articles written by people who were traveling long term, and each one said that they didn't even think about the items they had packed into storage.  Turns out, that is not my case at all.  

After almost a year, my apartment, which is beautifully appointed, does contain more items that I selected.  I like remembering each purchase and the conversations with shop owners. The apartment is modern and my taste tends to be more "country", so now there's a happy blend.  This is only a small step, because "home" is more than objects.  A casa.  Dove cantera' il mio cuore? 

(Note-- After I wrote this rumination, I listened to a podcast by an American journalist working in Beirut and reporting on the explosion of 4 August. Her apartment was badly damaged.  She had multiple cuts requiring stitches.  Her story, and worse, is multiplied throughout the city.  Perspective.)

The Poetry of Flowers

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886): gardener, poet, correspondent, recluse, "Belle of Amherst".

Sometime before June 13, 2010, I plan to see the exhibit "Emily Dickinson's Garden" at the New York Botanical Garden. The exhibit has two components: inside the Enid A. Haupt Conservatory and a "poetry walk" on the grounds surrounding the conservatory. Inside the conservatory you'll see typical garden flowers such as foxglove, delphinium, hollyhocks (could they be seven feet tall?), roses, daisies, hydrangea and more. (I use the word "typical" with more than a hint of envy since the flowers on display look nothing like the flowers I try to grow! Seriously, the foxglove must be four feet tall, ditto on the delphinium. If I only had a gardening crew...) Additionally there is a facade of the Homestead (her home) joined by a short path through a garden to the facade of her brother's home. Apparently she spent a great deal of time going back and forth. Outside the conservatory, there are shade gardens, herbs, and the most spectacular row of peonies. Nested in between all of these flowers and plants are placards with poems by Dickinson. Some are small so they fit in with low growing flowers, while the ones outside are like the oversized cards in Alice in Wonderland. I took the time to read most of the poems, though my companions were not that interested. Either way, it's all lovely.

After all that walking and Victorian culture, we drove the short distance to Arthur Avenue for a totally different cultural experience: Little Italy of the Bronx. Since we were there Sunday around 5pm, many of the shops were closed. However, several bakeries were open, including my friend's favorite- Madonia Brothers Bakery (2348 Arthur Avenue/ 718-295-5573). There I bought a puffy loaf of onion bread, ciabatta, and a variety of biscotti. When we walked out of the bakery, we must have had the look of "Where should we go for dinner?" since a couple crossing the street asked us if we would like a dinner recommendation. They raved about Enzo's, a local favorite across the street from where we stood. So, that's where we went.


http://www.nybg.org/