The essence of a house

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Old houses are filled with stories.  We live in them knowing that others, long dead, have lived here before us.  We may never know exactly who they were, what their lives were like, how they lived and died.  But we know that their history has soaked into the walls, their voices have filled the rooms, their journeys have helped the house become what it is today.

I remember the autumn evening, ten years ago, when this house became our home.  We hadn’t yet moved in, so it was empty of furniture, but we lit the fire and sat on the floor in the sitting room.  The décor was dark and ugly, there was much to do to make it ours, but I remember the feeling of contentment at knowing this was our home.  When we moved in we set to with paint before we even settled, divesting the house of its last occupants.  But over time, our enthusiasm to complete the many jobs and overcome the many quirks of workmanship waned.  Over time I became disconnected from that initial contentment: the weight of unfinished jobs, nuisance neighbours and the routines of life made me forget the promise the house once held.  I dreamed of moving away, to a rural retreat by the sea.  But lately, I’ve begun to re-connect to this old house and its history.

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It was built in 1879, an old terrace, its footprint much the same now as it would have been then.  The kitchen and bathroom are recent additions and it’s difficult to see through the modern appearance to the house it once was.  But the ghost of a door blocked up in the sitting room, traces of old hearths in the bedrooms, parquet flooring in the hall and a disused chimney at the back of the house hint at the way it would have been originally.

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For many years, this was a street of craftspeople, business people and ‘gentlemen’.  In its first three decades my house was inhabited by a draper, a fitter, an accountant’s clerk and a ‘water boat’ owner.  But the residents that I feel most strongly connected to are two widows who lived here in the first half of the twentieth century.  Catherine Cowen Gray lived here from around 1917 until 1927.  Edith Wilberforce Culyer moved in after Catherine’s departure and stayed until 1939.  Edith’s husband was a butcher from Woolwich and he died in the year she moved here.  She had two daughters, Constance and Nancy and a son Henry, named after his father.  We know little more about Edith than that, but we have more of an insight into events in Catherine’s life.  She wasn’t a widow when she arrived.  Her husband Adam was a warrant engineer in the Royal Naval Reserve and they had three children: James, Margaret and Thomas.  Both Adam and James died in the local asylum as a result of World War One.  Adam’s injuries aren’t known, but we know James was discharged from the Scottish Rifles after a gas attack in France in 1917 and died aged 21 ‘after 12 months suffering from gas and shellshock’.

I think of Catherine and Edith often, these two women similar in age to me who cared for this house before me.  And although they’re long gone and neither of them died here, I like to think that something of their spirit remains.

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The houses we live in affect us, infusing our memories.  If we’re lucky, they’re the place above all others that is our sanctuary.  We can leave the world and its tribulations at the door.  They can stir our creativity or hinder it.  And we leave our mark on them, not only physically, but by the way we live, what we take with us and what we leave behind.

Home isn’t only a place of slate and stone, it’s the fiery centre inside us where our creative force lies.  Vesta is the guardian of this space.  She is the goddess of the hearth: the sacred fire that is the source of life.  Vesta was a powerful goddess, protecting not only the home, but also the ‘hearth’ of the city of Rome.

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I believe a house has its own essence, with a temperament that either welcomes us in or repels.  After ten years, my house and I are still getting acquainted, but when I’m alone and the house is silent I know that I was meant to call it home.

The wonderful La Sabrosona over at My Spanglish Familia nominated me for the Encouraging Thunder award.  Although I don’t ‘do’ awards, please take the time to visit her eclectic, entertaining and passionate blog.

Finding the spark

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The crisp nights of November are ushered in with chaos.  On Bonfire Night, the sky is choked with smoke and teems with bangs and whistles.  Since they were first invented in ancient China, we’ve used fireworks for our celebrations.  The allure, I think, is something about the shared spectacle of awe.  Something about the suspense of wondering what that bang or whistle will bloom into.  And something about the hint of danger.  Our ancestors must have felt something similar when they discovered fire hundreds of thousands of years ago: this creative force that could protect and nurture but also maim or kill.

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Fire has long been associated with creativity and for good reason.  Creating the spark of an idea from nothing, or from basic raw materials.  Putting in the effort to kindle the spark into something that burns.  Then, controlling that flame until it forges something that is a source of sustenance or beauty.  And, as with the element itself, there is always that potential for danger or unpredictability – it may fizzle to nothing or burn out of control.

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In magic, fire is associated with creativity, purification, passion and transformation.  It is the reminder in the darkness that the sun – and life – will return.  Fire isn’t my element.  I was born under a water sign and I’m much more comfortable in that environment.  But I do love the meditative quality of staring into a fire.  I appreciate the sensuality of it: the bright, mercurial flicker of the flames, the hiss and crackle as it burns, the scent of burning wood or coal.  I love too the comfort of the hearth on a cold night and the formidable crack of lightning across a dark sky.

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So, as the nights become colder and longer, it’s a good time to use fire as a starting point for inspiration.  Quite literally, you might kindle the spark of an idea.  Think not only of the properties of fire itself, but of its broader associations: the sun, the south, the heat of noon, the desert, volcanoes, the heat of passion, the fire in the belly.  Use these associations as the basis for a story or artwork.

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If your creativity in general needs a boost, you could use the aspects of fire to prompt actions that will help you think of your work in new ways.  Consider what you can do to put the passion back into your work.  Think about what needs to be consigned to the flames to purify your practice and start again.  Consider what you can transform in your creative process to make it more productive.

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If you wish, you could perform some very simple fire magic.   Choose a candle of an appropriate colour.  This might be orange for creativity, red for passion, purple for inspiration or black for the destruction of things you want to get rid of.  You can carve the candle with words or symbols to represent your intent, always being very specific about what you want to achieve.  When the candle has burned, perhaps you can use what’s left of it to make an object to remind you of its purpose: use the wax as part of an artwork perhaps, or inscribe a phrase or poem on it.  Once complete, you then need to take some practical steps in the world for the magic to do its work.

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Fire is considered a volatile element, but without it, we wouldn’t have endured.  Creativity too can be chaotic and unpredictable, but our world would be poorer without it.  So the next time you stare into a fire, or see the sky filled with fireworks, remember that you’re celebrating not only the power of fire itself, but of our ability to imagine, to invent and to convert the spark of an idea into something extraordinary.