Happier at Home Page 4

  As I thought about my home and my possessions, a line from the Bible kept running through my mind. Jesus said: “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” The relationship between my heart and my treasure was something I sought to understand more clearly.

  CULTIVATE A SHRINE

  With my resolution to “Cultivate a shrine,” I meant to transform areas of my apartment into places of super-engagement. I have a friend who lives in an apartment that looks like a time-share condo: attractive, but so impersonal that it doesn’t seem to belong to anyone in particular. I wanted home to feel like home.

  Eleanor inspired this resolution. Throughout the apartment were jackdaw collections of her treasures, in little spaces she called her “areas”—on windowsills, behind her bedroom door, on the step next to Jamie’s desk, on her bedside table, behind the rocker in her room. In careful tableaux, she’d arranged huge assortments of china teacups, princess figurines, crayons, torn-up tissues, pretend food, scented lip balm, plastic phones, and glittering gimcracks. To the uninitiated, these areas looked haphazard, but Eleanor had a vision for each, and if anyone removed even a single item, we’d soon hear a cry of disbelief, “Who took the Tinker Bell doll from behind my door?” I’d hear her murmur, “I need the Super Ball with the polar bear inside,” and watch her dart off to retrieve it instantly from what appeared, to the untrained eye, to be a massive jumble of stuff. She played in these areas by herself for hours—talking to herself, running from room to room, moving the figurines.

  “Doesn’t it drive you crazy? Look at all this!” asked Jamie one morning, pointing to some crowded windowsills before he left for work. “She has to put her stuff away. It’s everywhere.”

  “I know, it’s messy, but she really plays in these areas,” I answered. “If we can stand it, I think we should let her keep them as long as she’s actually using them.”

  Calling my own areas “shrines” sounded a little grandiose, but the word helped me approach the task more enthusiastically: Creating a shrine sounded more intriguing than sprucing up the apartment. By “shrine,” I didn’t mean a niche with candles, flowers, and a statue, but rather, Eleanor-like, an area that enshrined my passions, interests, and values. A shrine is arranged with care. It entices people to particular activities and moods. It’s a sign of dedication.

  Some household places naturally become areas of super-engagement. Research suggests that no matter how big a house, people spend the most time near the kitchen, gathered around the closest flat surface—a kitchen table, an island, a nearby dining room table—or in rooms with televisions or computers. Our kitchen table, TV, and computers got plenty of attention. I wanted to charge other areas with greater significance and beauty.

  Just the sight of meaningful possessions gave me a sense of being surrounded by … well, if not by friends, by benevolent presences. I’ve never forgotten Elaine Scarry’s observation in The Body in Pain, “Perhaps no one who attends closely to artifacts is wholly free of the suspicion that they are, though not animate, not quite inanimate.” Beloved objects gave me a sense of real comfort.

  I wanted to begin my resolution by creating a Shrine to My Family—and for that shrine, photographs would be most important. To eke out the most happiness from an experience, we must anticipate it, savor it as it unfolds, express happiness, and recall a happy memory, and photographs are a very helpful tool for prompting happy memories. As many as 85 percent of adults keep photos or mementos in their wallets or on their work desks, and happy families tend to display large numbers of photographs in their homes.

  I already had collections of photographs in several places throughout our apartment, but I’d fallen behind with framing some new pictures. I dislike errands, but after some stalling, I took several photos to the neighborhood frame shop to pick out suitable frames. I arranged the frames more attractively on the shelves and moved some rarely seen photos into more prominent positions. I wasn’t satisfied with this effort, however; because these photos were a permanent part of our apartment landscape, we usually walked right by them without seeing them. How could I focus our attention on our photographs? I had an idea. I’d create a new holiday photo gallery.

  I’d already created one gallery: Every Halloween, I set out a photo display of the girls in their costumes over the years. The collection made a terrific seasonal decoration, and because these photos weren’t always on display, we paid special attention to them.

  Now I’d create a second gallery, from our collection of annual family Valentine’s cards. (Instead of winter holiday cards, we send out Valentine’s cards in February, because life is so crazy in December.) Over the next several days, I dug out the cards from past years. Each one brought back a flood of memories: five-year-old Eliza twirling in her blue dress with the cluster of cherries, which I loved more than any other outfit she’d ever worn; Eliza and Eleanor dressed in their flower-girl outfits for my sister Elizabeth’s wedding; Eliza lifting Eleanor high, both of them wearing ballet clothes.

  Once I’d collected the cards, I had to exert a considerable amount of self-coaching to drag myself back to that frame shop (I really do hate errands), but finally I had a pink, red, or white frame for every picture. I set them all out on a shelf and stood back to survey the effect—beautiful. I hated to store these beloved photographs until February, but I knew that we’d appreciate them more if they weren’t continually on display.

  Next, I considered objects that, like photos, powerfully reminded me of beloved family members. In a little-used cabinet in my kitchen, I came across the china pink flamingo that I’d taken as a keepsake from my grandparents’ house after my grandmother died. An unlikely object, but I’d admired it so much as a child that it seemed like the thing I should keep. I took it down and set it on a bookshelf alongside the glass bluebird that my other grandmother had given me (oddly presciently, given that the bluebird is a symbol of happiness) many years ago. After all, I couldn’t engage with objects if I never saw them. As I looked at the two bird figurines, it struck me as poignant that my long relationship with my beloved grandparents could be embodied in a few small objects. But the power of objects doesn’t depend on their volume; in fact, my memories were better evoked by a few carefully chosen items than by a big assortment of things with vague associations. That flamingo and that bluebird brought back my grandparents, those summer visits to Nebraska, the smell of Fort Cody—I didn’t need anything more.

  What should be my next shrine? Apart from my family, my most precious possession was my laptop, the indispensable tool for my work and my play. My most faithful servant and most constant companion, it was no mere machine. It had its own quiet personality, and I loved it like an old dog or a beloved stuffed animal.

  My laptop sat on my desk, one of the vital centers of my home, like a hearth or marriage bed or kitchen table. And because my desk swallowed up most of my tiny office, I decided to make the entire room a Shrine to Work.

  I loved my office because I loved working, but the room itself wasn’t particularly pleasing. I’d never tried to make it beautiful and distinctive—for instance, its terra-cotta-colored walls were totally bare—partly because it’s so small, just big enough for a built-in desk and a small chair, but mostly because I just never bothered. (Keep it simple, I’d thought when we moved into the apartment.)

  I decided to make my office more shrine-like; after all, I probably spent more of my waking hours in my office than in any other room in the apartment. I was fortunate to have complete control over my office. A University of Exeter study showed that people who have control over their workspace design are happier at work, more motivated, healthier, and up to 32 percent more productive. Also, when I was working at home, I tended to pop up every few minutes to go to the bathroom, get a drink, or most often, retrieve a snack. A comfortable, inviting office would help me cultivate the Sitzfleisch—the sheer ability to stay in my chair—that every writer needs.

  I surveyed the room from the doorway. I didn’t mind h
aving such a small office (except that I couldn’t fit in a treadmill desk, which I badly wanted), but lately I’d felt drained by it; although it was reasonably tidy, the narrow room felt overstuffed.

  I started by pulling out the masses of folders crammed into the shelves above my desk. Although I wanted to keep some papers related to my clerkship with Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor and my job at the Federal Communications Commission, and some materials I’d collected for unfinished book projects, those papers could be moved to an out-of-the-way closet.

  Next I turned to the messy stacks of boxes that held supplies. I consolidated boxes of stationery to save space, I bought two attractive cardboard boxes to hold small office-supply items, and then, in a fit of obsession, I even lined up the labels on the spare reams of printer paper. For weeks, I’d been planning to buy pens, because I could never find one when I wanted one, but I discovered fifteen pens jammed in an overlooked drawer.

  After some sessions of culling and organizing, the room looked more spacious, and I knew exactly what supplies I owned. Its new orderliness helped me feel focused and serene as I sat down to work. What else could I do to make the room more shrine-like?

  Ideally, my office would have a view. Research shows that views of a natural scene, or even just a picture of one, calmed college students facing tough exams and helped surgical patients recover faster. (Also, surgical patients who received flowers had improved rates of recovery.) People in prison cells with natural views reported illness less often than those without views. Although I had plenty of light, so precious in New York City, my windows overlooked a tar roof and two air-conditioning units.

  I remembered studies that showed that while it’s common for people to decorate their walls with pictures of striking natural scenes, people in windowless rooms are much more likely to do so. Well, I thought without enthusiasm, I could put up a photograph of a beach scene or a forest brook.

  As I gazed absently at the bare surfaces, however, an idea struck me: painted walls. I’ve always loved painted walls and painted furniture, and at dinner at some friends’ apartment, I’d admired the beautiful blossoming tree painted in their hallway. Maybe I could get something painted on my walls. Immediately the usual objections flooded into my mind: “Keep it simple!” “Who wants to deal with phone calls, decisions, and appointments?” “Why spend money on your office?” “You should be working!”

  No, I told myself firmly, I’m making a Shrine to Work. I emailed my friend to ask for information, and much sooner than I would’ve thought possible, beautiful painted wisteria climbed the walls of my office. It was surprising how much more finished and complete the room felt. I’d never minded the bare walls—in fact, I’d imagined that their spareness gave me a sense of calm—but my office became far more pleasant after the addition of flowering vines and a single hummingbird.

  This exercise showed me that when I’m excited by an idea, a project seems easy, and I move quickly. When I’m not excited by an idea, a project seems tedious, and I procrastinate. If I’d pushed myself to put up a framed picture of a forest scene, I doubt that I would have made any progress.

  I surveyed my office with satisfaction. It was now a Shrine to Work. My eye fell with particular fondness on my trusty book weight, a gift from Jamie. This slender leather strip has two heavy, bulging ends that I lay on top of a book to hold its page open as I type my notes. I used this book weight practically every day, and its suitability for its use delighted me. A well-designed workspace and well-made instruments made work a joy.

  Shrine to My Family, Shrine to Work—what next? I stalked through the other rooms of our apartment in search of prospects.

  A few years ago, following my commandment to “Be Gretchen,” I’d embraced my love for children’s and young-adult literature. Until then, I’d ignored my fanatical love for books such as A Little Princess (greatest vindication story ever), The Golden Compass (greatest animal character ever), and Little Women (greatest family story ever), because I’d decided that it didn’t fit with my self-image as a sophisticated, serious-minded adult. When I acknowledged my true likes and dislikes, instead of being distracted by what I wished I liked or thought I ought to like, I started a children’s literature reading group. This kidlit group proved so popular, and grew so large, that I had to start another group, and then still another group. And I’d believed I was the only adult who loved these books!

  Belonging to these three groups ensured that I made time in my schedule to read and discuss these books, and I decided to make a physical place for this passion, as well. Instead of keeping these books scattered around the apartment, I would reorganize some bookcases to make a Shrine to Children’s Literature.

  “What are you doing?” Jamie asked when he saw me sitting on the floor, surrounded by piles of books.

  “I’m making a Shrine to Children’s Literature,” I answered.

  “Oh,” he said, without a flicker of surprise. “I thought you did that a long time ago.” He vanished quickly, to avoid getting conscripted into book sorting, I’m sure.

  As I alphabetized the books into unsteady stacks on the rug, it occurred to me that my personal commandment to “Be Gretchen” is so important that it deserved to be enshrined as the Fifth Splendid Truth: I can build a happy life only on the foundation of my own nature. A Shrine to Children’s Literature wasn’t a universal formula for happiness, but it made me happier.

  It took me several days to finish, but soon I was gloating over my collection—all my beloved titles lined up together. Here was a shelf of nothing but Harry Potter, here, my worn copies of the Narnia books, there, my beloved Little House books (Santa Claus brought me one volume each Christmas for nine years). The Elizabeth Enright and Edward Eager books I’d read so many times. Mary Stoltz, who didn’t get the attention she deserved. Streatfield, Barrie, Canfield, Collins, Cashore, Montgomery, L’Engle, Tolkien, Alcott, Konigsberg—so many wonderful books, all gathered together. The shrine’s capstone was the gorgeous copy of Four to Llewelyn’s Edge, the illustrated children’s book I’d made with a friend. Inspired by J. M. Barrie’s brilliant skeleton of a book, The Boy Castaways of Black Lake Island, in which photographs of the Llewelyn Davies boys sketch a pirate adventure, my friend and I made photographs of our children in Central Park and turned the pictures into a book. What a delightful shrine! Just standing in front of these shelves made me happy.

  In a different room, a bookcase became the Shrine to Fun and Games. I filled its shelves with board games, puzzles, and five glass apothecary jars I’d filled with tiny toys that we wanted to keep but didn’t belong anyplace (plastic animals, costume jewelry, marbles, erasers in whimsical shapes). I made a place on the shelves for several favorite toys that I’d saved from my own childhood. I’d been trying to find the right place for the lovely silver rattles that Eliza and Eleanor had received as baby gifts. They’d served their purpose well, and they made a charming collection, but I hadn’t known what to do with them. Put them on the Shrine to Fun and Games.

  I wanted my shrines to represent important aspects of my life; what about a Shrine to Law? Jamie and I met in law school, and we still have lots of law school friends and a great love for Yale Law School. But so few relics remained from those days: three thick volumes of bound law journals, with “Gretchen A. Craft, Editor-in-Chief” embossed on the spine; Jamie’s massive final paper, “Neighborhood Resistance to Transitional Housing Facilities in New York State”; and our battered copy of the “Communications Act of 1934 as amended by the Telecommunications Act of 1996” (the size of a paperback novel) from the days when we both worked at the FCC. And we didn’t need anything more. Law was an important part of our past, but it didn’t warrant a shrine. In fact, I got rid of several weighty casebooks that we hadn’t opened in years, and seeing the newly open space on our crowded bookshelves made me very happy.

  Once I started cultivating my shrines, I began to notice that other people, consciously or unconsciously, had constructed their
own. One stylish friend keeps her necklaces in a beautiful display, spread out on a table instead of stored out of sight. A bookish friend organizes her books by color, in a band that circles her studio apartment. My mother-in-law, Judy, who has a strong creative streak, made a striking Shrine to Playwrights Horizons, the theater where she’s board chair, on the walls of my in-laws’ apartment. The next time I visited, I examined this shrine more closely.

  “What do you call these … mini-poster things?” I asked, pointing to one of the walls. Each Playwrights Horizons show from the last decade was represented by what looked like a theater poster, but much smaller.

  “Oh, these are mailers.” She walked over to stand beside me. “We send them out for each show.”

  “And you’ve framed and hung them all?”

  “Yes. I get such a feeling of accomplishment every time I put up a new set.”

  Some familiar shrines are the Shrines to Music, Shrines to Travel, or Shrines to Tools. I still remember the imposing corner of my grandparents’ garage where my grandfather’s tools hung in their precise places. A friend who loves arts and crafts transformed a large closet into a tiny room, just big enough for a chair and a narrow counter, with walls covered from top to bottom with racks, shelves, and compartments, each cunningly suited to hold its tool or supply. For many people, a car is an important shrine. A bathroom can be a shrine (a room, studies show, that women enjoy more than men), as can the basement (which men enjoy more than women).