It was lace curtains that oversaw the creative muse of generations of artists in my Mother’s very close extended family. Growing up around a hodge podge of art forms was like being surrounded by magic; a place where dreams truly came alive on canvas or in clay or stone.
Yet, it was the lace curtains in my Grandmother’s house that have stayed with me the most. The windows were almost always open…as much to let the paint fumes out as to let a cool breeze in. Those curtains watched over me as my mother rocked me in that room as a baby, while others painted or talked about art.
Those beautiful Lace curtains gently rustling in the breeze that over saw all the family happenings. They were there at births, at marriages, and when goodbyes were said. The room where they hung was the gathering place of children playing with gifts at Christmas. They spoke of romance, and love and an era long gone now, and a family with roots that reached from coast to coast and beyond generations.
As I have grown older, I find beautiful old lace can open a floodgate of memories. Memories of Artists chatting, and creating; of children laughing and playing. But mostly thoughts of the very deep roots one can put down in a place where they are well and unconditionally loved. And of the wings one can grow when they are allowed to believe anything is possible.