pastels, pretty lace, and gloriously gigantic powder puffs. a glass vase full of lusciously lavender violets of course! all coupled with silk wallpaper in a rich peony color. porcelain bath-tubs with feet that belong to the mystical animal creatures of fairy-tales. a soft and delicate towel hanging on a gold and regal bar, with your initials delicately stitched into them. falling asleep with the embers of a dying fire bidding you good night. a wise birch gate embraced by shrewd and stubborn vines, with a keyhole that the most precious sliver of willful sunlight finds its way through. the promise of adventure, of mysticism, fairies and lily pads, overwhelm you. this world is paradoxically both luxury and simplicity.
growing up this world was the only world that i yearned to belong to. having grown up, that hasn't changed. the book of my childhood, the first book i ever read in triple digits, was burnett's the secret garden. it was the first time i had ever envisioned a life outside of my own world, and i saw in its text a map, a map that led me into a secret place, a place that no one knew i had cradled between my hands. it is an extraordinary story, and images of its passages still run through my imagination.
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