Chintz drapes, cottage gardens, and being at home

When I was a child I would lie in bed in the morning, and looking at the chintz drapes covering my bedroom window I could see faces in the drape’s patterns. Even as a child I took these faces for granted and knew they were a creation of my own imagination. And this is what we do as children, we enter a land of make believe, we create a narrative of the imagination, and it is an activity that seems as natural to a child as sleep. Only much later do we realize that things such as this are also an entrance to the soul, and this includes an assortment of imaginal work, it includes dreams and being creative, for me, for no reason at all, I began writing poetry. An active imagination also includes archetypes and symbolism, in this case the symbolism of windows is important, think of window symbolism in Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. A window is like a picture frame surrounding the outside world; it is a moment caught in space and time, a moment celebrating life; it is an entrance to the soul.

My friend, George Johnston, was a member of the William Morris Society of Canada, and one day he told me he was scheduled to address the Society on some aspect of William Morris's philosophy and art; it was Morris who raised the art and design of chintz to a new level of sophistication. Anyone interested in W.B. Yeats might enjoy reading The Yeats Sisters: A Biography of Susan and Elizabeth Yeats (1996) by Joan Hardwick. In addition to learning more about the sisters of probably the greatest poet of the Twentieth Century, Susan and Elizabeth Yeats made a living in London working for William Morris and his daughter, May Morris, but it was not a pleasant experience. When one thinks of chintz fabric, or of wallpaper, one thinks of Morris's designs. Chintz fits in with cottage gardens and cottages, the arts and crafts movement, and it is part of the ambience of cosiness, making one's home welcoming and warm, a place that is a sanctuary from the outside world, a place of refuge where one can think one’s own thoughts and let one’s imagination go where it will. There is a healing quality to this, healing that is found in an environment not far removed from nature, it is healing that is possible for our inner being.                                          

Looking at the chintz drapes that I recently put up in a room in our home, I now see the psychic (as in “psyche”, the soul) quality of this fabric, the drapes seem to continue inside the room what exists only a few feet outside, they are a transition between the outside and the inside of one’s home. Chintz drapes embrace the outside world, they are an extension of the outside world, the garden, flowers, shrubs, and trees, the sky, clouds, rain, snow, and birds inhabiting the sky. There is a conservative repetition of certain patterns and motifs in these drapes, including flowers, vines, and greenery. Household furnishings—carpets, easy chairs, table lamps, bridge lamps, bookshelves, books, visual art on the walls, the colour of the walls, and drapes—all assume a oneness, and the garden is an extension of the rooms in one’s home to the natural world outside, the two becoming one. In order to discover what it means to be fully human, one’s environment needs to be a reflection of one’s inner being, and know that it can be a life lived sanely in an increasingly disturbed world. There is nothing modern about chintz or a cottage garden or being home, they breathe security and comfort.

             

                   

                   

Photos above taken 22 May 2025

"Stars" by Emily Bronte

 

                        Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
                        Restored our Earth to joy,
                        Have you departed, every one,
                        And left a desert sky?

                        All through the night, your glorious eyes
                        Were gazing down in mine,
                        And, with a full heart’s thankful sighs,
                        I blessed that watch divine.

                        I was at peace, and drank your beams
                        As they were life to me;
                        And reveled in my changeful dreams,
                        Like petrel on the sea.

                        Thought followed thought, star followed star,
                        Through boundless regions, on;
                        While one sweet influence, near and far,
                        Thrilled through, and proved us one!

                        Why did the morning dawn to break
                        So great, so pure, a spell;
                        And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek,
                        Where your cool radiance fell?

                        Blood-red, he rose, and, arrow-straight,
                        His fierce beams struck my brow;
                        The soul of nature sprang, elate,
                        But mine sank sad and low!

                        My lids closed down, yet through their veil
                        I saw him, blazing, still,
                        And steep in gold the misty dale,
                        And flash upon the hill.

                        I turned me to the pillow, then,
                        To call back night, and see
                        Your worlds of solemn light, again,
                        Throb with my heart, and me!

                        It would not do—the pillow glowed,
                        And glowed both roof and floor;
                        And birds sang loudly in the wood,
                        And fresh winds shook the door;

                        The curtains waved, the wakened flies
                        Were murmuring round my room,
                        Imprisoned there, till I should rise,
                        And give them leave to roam.

                        Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night;
                        Oh, night and stars, return!
                        And hide me from the hostile light
                        That does not warm, but burn;

                        That drains the blood of suffering men;
                        Drinks tears, instead of dew;
                        Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
                        And only wake with you!

"The night is darkening round me" by Emily Bronte

This is the Sulpician Seminary, the College de Montreal, 
on Sherbrooke Street West near Fort and Towers, near Atwater;
that is one of the towers. Taken in 2013.

              

The night is darkening round me,

The wild winds coldly blow;

But a tyrant spell has bound me,

And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending

Their bare boughs weighed with snow;

The storm is fast descending,

And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,

Wastes beyond wastes below;

But nothing drear can move me;

I will not, cannot go.