Once upon a time I was walking out of the woods with my love. It was late summer, and we were on a final camping trip before the autumnal return to our respective schools. We had embarked on our walk early that morning and were hopelessly lost by mid-afternoon. When hiking, the boy prefers improvisation to, say… taking the time to stop and look at a map. This has gotten us into some tricky situations on more than one occasion. On this particular day we walked an extra four miles farther than originally intended, putting us in the middle of a state forest, nine miles from the park exit, with daylight rapidly fading.
Now I wouldn’t call myself a “type A” personality, but I have my tendencies. I like planning. And maps. I don’t always like this fact about myself, but I can admit that improvisation sometimes stresses me out. So when I’m in the middle of the forest and the boy says, very quietly under his breath as though he’s hoping I won’t hear, “Oh shit,” I’m not always very nice about it. At first. But, as usual, after the initial panic about getting out of the woods before darkness (and bears) set in had passed, I found myself pleased by the unexpected turn our journey had taken. I relished in the warmth of the late sun on my shoulders, the feeling of his hand in mine, and the joy of being outdoors, far away from my everyday life.
It was in this blissed out state that we passed a house. It was blue. Sunflowers crowded close to the windows, their faces tipped to the sun, gulping down those intoxicating rays. There was a very large orange tabby sitting in the middle of the lawn, giving us the stink eye. I’m not sure what this quaint abode was doing in the state forest, but I remember thinking whoever lived there was very lucky. And then, apropos of nothing, I thought, “That house would look good in purple.” And thus the dream was born.
The purple house will be my final resting place. I better pick the location carefully, because once the purple house is built I won’t be going anywhere or moving ever again. I will finally be able to own the whole menagerie of dogs, pigs, goats, bees, cats and horses that I have always dreamed of. I will grow my own tomatoes and so fulfill a long-held fantasy of never buying grocery store produce again. This house will be an eternal work in progress. It will be cluttered and cozy. My backyard will be unruly. It will need a lot of land, because I am a solitary creature. It will be a haven of shiny things, like this fence:
I recently graduated from school and my future is filled with an often overwhelming amount of unknowns. I’m currently an assistant at a small publishing house and, though I love the work itself, sitting at a desk all day is more taxing on my psyche than I can ever fully explain. And so I dream of my house. I idle away my spare time at the office, the long train rides I take twice a day, five days a week, the dark, quiet moments before I fall asleep only to wake up and do it all again by fantasizing about a day when financial stability allows me to do nothing all day but read, milk my goats, tend to my tomatoes, and cook fresh, yummy food to enjoy with the creatures I love. When my fulltime occupation will be the purple house… the purplest house (I imagine the competition is fairly lean).
The purple house is not merely a house, but an emblem of the dreamy, easy lifestyle I’m trying to create for myself. This blog is meant to be an extension of my fantasies, a collection of things that inspire me to happiness, and a chronicle of my endeavors to make the purple house… the purplest house into a reality.
A million thanks to all the people I love, including (but not limited to) The Boy for designing my perfect banner and knowing when to shut up about the impracticality of painting a house purple, and to Maggie for turning to me one day and saying, “Hey, why don’t you start a blog?”