My house isn't perfect.
Shocking, I know. But it is the space we fill. We fill it with our laughter and our sorrows. We've filled it with our most precious possessions and tried to make it home. But mostly we've filled with people we love desperately.
Recently, my parents moved from the home I grew up in. My sweet sister called me and we shared memories as she walked through it for very last time. How the front room was when we were small. That one black lab we both loved. How I would mark her height on our closet door. And all those little times that had filled that house - our childhood home.
I remember doing the same thing just after my grandmother passed away. I ran my hands along the walls and breathed deeply to remember the smell. My hands passed over her huge shelves filled with books like I had a million times before. And I stared into the face of the grandfather clock that never kept time.
Neither of these homes would ever grace the pages of a decorator's magazine, but they're forever printed in my memory. Because those places with their spaces are part of me. Engrained more than a little in who I am. So when someone invites me into their space, that sacred place where they're growing and creating and learning and living I can't help but feel that it's bigger than I am. Bigger and better and oh so beautiful. And it's my greatest hope to somehow tell it so they can see it. So they can know they are great and perfect and human and beautiful and ... everything.
So if your house is like mine, imperfect but filled with those you cherish it's the perfect location, maybe the very best location, for your family story to be told. And I would love to tell that story for you! Inquire here or email me directly at email@example.com