Life in Photos, Poetry & Words

POETRY & WORDS :: What my mother taught me about making a house a home

What my mother taught me about linens, onions, and making a house a home via Oaxacaborn
What my mother taught me about linens, onions, and making a house a home via Oaxacaborn
What my mother taught me about linens, onions, and making a house a home via Oaxacaborn
What my mother taught me about linens, onions, and making a house a home via Oaxacaborn

It was my mom’s birthday yesterday.

She taught me — continues to teach me — countless things, among them the simple little fact that everyday chores can be infused with beauty.

She has a incredible touch which makes every little corner so pretty. No one can transform a space so quickly from generic to home like she can — she can make a hotel room feel like you’ve lived there your whole life, and you’re coming home.

She teaches me a cloth napkin folded in half underneath the French press can upgrade that morning cuppa from a routine to an experience.

She teaches me ragged, torn, stained towels belong in the rag box, not in the kitchen.  

She teaches me to stop mid-morning or mid-afternoon and savor something, like a tall glass of iced tea.

She teaches me no matter how little one has, it can be made beautiful through a combination of cleaning and contentment.

And most importantly, she’s taught me to start cooking an onion if Josiah’s on his way home and I haven’t yet started dinner.

Poetry & Words

WRITING & WORDS :: Inside, we turn up the music.


I’ve been in a bit of creative slump, lately. Her nap times come and go, and the silhouettes of half-made fabric dolls stay untouched on the wooden dining table near the windows. Bits of felt and embroidery thread remain stashed in the basket, sketches with new ideas remain taped to the wall, and fabric remains uncut.

And these pages haven’t been so filled with words, not so very many words at all, because words seem just kind of flattened out and tired, these days. Nothing magical really comes from my pen.

Even us, well, we stay in the house. The thick and sticky air hugs the house and warms it beyond comfort, and clings to us when we step outside. It’s heavy, it pulls us downward and pours its moisture into us and we tire of it so quickly. There is no wind.

Inside, we turn up the music, we make forts out of pillows and sheets, we cut everything into bite size pieces, we rinse and repeat. And we drink tea.

Lots, and lots of tea.

And you know what? It’s the best, most delicious, invisible imaginary tea I’ve ever had.