La Porte Violette (The Purple Door)

When we readied our house for sale in Reinholds, our realtors recommended two things--that we paint over my menu chalkboard wall and that we paint our purple door and mailbox to match the gray-blue trim. I don't think I said goodbye to our house the day we moved out; I said goodbye to it the day we painted over the door. Even Jonah, who refrains from comment on most issues, said, "It looks so sad."

How did the purple door come to be? Other than the fact that I picked the color and painted it. (One of the few things my husband has allowed me to paint. He says I am too creative with a brush.) The purple door was a direct result of our experiences at Moondance. As we would come back to reality from our holiday jaunts at this magical place, I thought about what it was that I wanted to bring back into our everyday lives. The answer was that I wanted a relaxed intentionality. I wanted our home to be a place that reenergized us for the outside world. And I wanted a place where my creative juices flowed. When we first went to Moondance, I was working full-time as a fabric designer, trying to get a literary agent for my novel. Though my kids were 5 and 8, the only activity they were engaged in was Sunday School. Jonah would start baseball the following year.  We still had our evenings free. Meal times seemed a likely way to bring "Moondance" home.

At dinner, we would try out some of the recipes from Moondance, and from there, I would riff with other garden produce. Tomatoes and peppers and eggplant. Oh my! Perhaps that was the time when we started having a glass of wine with dinner even though it was mid-week. In the weeks following Moondance, I would take care packing my lunch for work. I would buy a special cheese and make a salad of garden lettuces and homemade vinaigrette.  I would clean the kitchen after dinner and imagine I was "zenning". We played games in the evenings instead of rushing to turn on the TV. And I prioritized my creative life. Even in the midst of job and family, I knew I had to make room for the important things--the stuff I wanted to spend more of my time doing.

I needed to name this state of being. I needed to remind myself daily to renew my commitment to being in the moment with my family and with my life. I painted the door purple. It said, "I enter into this life and home with intention." When I pass through this door I am reminded of the life I want to have. And even if I move, I can paint any front door purple. I also made a sign for our house that said "La Porte Violette" or the purple door in French. It was another way for me to delineate the experience. If the name Moondance evoked the magic of a holiday, then La Porte Violette reminded me that there was enchantment to be claimed even on a Thursday night when I was lugging groceries into the house after working all day.

When we moved to Arden, I loved the natural colors of the front doors of our new house, which were a quiet green. Frankly, I was scared to introduce another color to the palette.  What if I wrecked the soothing vibe? With my friend Jodi's help, I picked a shade of purple that would blend with the other tones. I knew I needed to do this. Once again, I was the one painting the doors. (We actually have three front doors in Arden). One small hiccough occurred when I accidentally ran over one of the doors with my car while it was lying under our carport waiting to be sanded down. Luckily, Mark was able to fix it because it was a custom size. But soon, we were living life behind the purple doors again. Our new friend Keri bought us Purple Cowboy wine to celebrate. It was her house previously, so I was a little nervous to show her the change I had made. She loved the color and said she thought of painting her new front door that color, but didn't want to seem like a copy-cat. I encouraged her to do it anyway.

I am home again. Walking through my purple door is a gateway--an invitation to be present in life, to engage in a creative practice, to be fully myself. And it is an invitation for those who want to join me. Come on over.

The Moondance Connection

Before we attended the Games on the Green in Arden, we had other July Fourth festivities. For about ten years, we drove to our friends' retreat in southwest Ohio over the holiday. Our friends--actually the aunt and uncle of our best friends--came to Ohio over the summers to get away from the oppressive heat in Houston, Texas. Susan bought sixty-some odd acres of mining lands a hilltop away from the dairy farm where she was raised and created a summer retreat. This land is in the middle of nowhere. Roads are hilly, mostly dirt and gravel. The nearest big city is Wheeling, West Virginia. Susan and Wayne fly into the area via the Pittsburgh airport. Susan built her "barn" on the hilltop overlooking fields where she cultivates grass for hay and woods where she has carved paths for hiking and driving the Mule utility vehicle. The ambiance of the place is rustic and casual but with an elegance for which Susan is known.

The first year we came to Moondance, our kids were five and eight. They hopped out of the car and claimed immediate boredom. Nothing to do. Indeed, we had left the electronic world behind. They were going to have to rough it out here in Ohio's only hilly region. But then, after a long weekend of riding in the Mule, blowing bubbles, grilling hot dogs over the fire, flying kites, painting pictures, catching frogs, hoola hooping, watching fireworks, hopping hay bales, they didn't want to leave.

We parents didn't want to leave either. We had rainy happy hours drinking Wayne's margaritas--accompanied by Susan's homemade guac and chips-- under the metal porch roof. It only seemed to rain at happy hour, and only for a bit. Then Susan would make dinner in a leisurely fashion. She always wanted to eat by 7, but we rarely sat down before 9. We would set a table outside on the hill and watch the sun slip below the horizon. Everything stopped when the sun was going down. It was must-see. Even the dog faced sunset. Or maybe he was just facing the deer who were scampering in the fields below.

The dinners were not your usual hamburger hotdog fair. We had grilled redfish on the half shell or Pechuga a la perilla (grilled marinated chicken) or Cajun shrimp kabobs. Leg of Lamb, marinated flank steak fajitas, paella. All with a fresh green salad from the garden. We have had some of the best meals of our lives atop that hill. It never hurt that we were always famished from spending time out of doors and from the late dinner hour. The wine never hurt either. We vacationed in California Wine Country with this group, and we all appreciated a good bottle. Wayne and Susan took great care to get us our favorites, bottles we couldn't get easily in Pennsylvania. After dinner, we would work up a good Cinch tournament that would last long into the night.

I used the time at Moondance to read books on philosophy and art theory and journal. Susan has huge  circular wicker chairs that swallow you up. Mark would volunteer for projects around the place. He helped build a pergola and repair a fence. He also lent a hand with the electronics, setting up outdoor speakers so that Susan could play the jazz or country music that were the soundtrack of our balmy dinners. Mark liked doing it. He  was content to be away from the office or cubical and doing things with his hands.

On the actual Fourth of July, neighbors would come on their four wheelers for the huge picnic dinner. One of the neighbors, another summer visitor, had a huge RV. He helped supply the fireworks. The show eventually got so big, he started hiring his own fireworks guy to manage it. Moondance's fireworks show rivaled that of all the small towns in the area. We know. We could see six towns worth of fireworks from our perch. By the last year we went to Moondance, there were probably 100 people and 20 four-wheelers gathered for the event.

Life was genteel. We took Reubens and French potato salad to picnic by the stream to skip rocks or to the pond to fish.  We picked raspberries, and Susan made pies. Jim (of the fireworks fame) would stop over with a batch from the fish fry--whitefish freshly caught in the Great Lakes--for us to devour in late afternoon. We all pitched in with dishes, and when Susan got out the electric broom, she didn't call it cleaning. She was "zenning".  She had built a fern bar  (a wooden bar and seats near a patch of ferns) in the woods where we could sit for drinks. If you found the right trail you would discover a tree house or a rope swing or a watermelon cooling in a natural spring or Susan's half wild cats or just a pair of adirondack chairs in the middle of nowhere, looking out over a picturesque ravine.  The kids received presents from the fairies every night and went on a fairy treasure hunts. Over the years, Susan added to the enchantment. She had a wine cave dug out of one of the hills. Before that she had installed a hot tub where I swear my kids learned to swim. Just as well. They also all learned to drive here on the Mule and subsequent utility vehicles. Eight was the age and a true rite of passage.  I did yoga from the moon terrace and painted in the pavilion. It was magazine living, and it was down-in-the-dirt, backroads country.

Every year, on the five-hour return trip home, I would try to figure out how to capture some of the magic of this experience and infuse it into our everyday life. I was convinced it was possible. You had to be present for the sunset. You had to pick wildflowers and light lots of candles. You had to get dirt under your fingernails and be amazed by a starry night. You had to hoe the garden, catch the frog and then turn around and dress for dinner and not care that dinner was late. I never had it all figured out by the time we reached home, but I had glimmers of what I wanted. Moondance was the start of a conversation that started with the question: How do I want to live my every day life? I am pretty sure that experience and that question led us here to Arden.

Tune in tomorrow when I tell the story of the purple door. Hint: it has to do with Moondance.