“The home should be the treasure chest of living.”
Le Corbusier
I’ve often felt the way a house looks is an outward manifestation of the souls within. I believe a house stores energy in the molecules of its structure, the older the building the more layers of energy stored. I found this to be absolutely true last week after having a remarkable experience. I had decided to take some photographs of the facade of a house I’ve been photographing for years. I wanted a photograph of a new sign created for my tour business, French Country Adventures. The street the house is on was deserted, as so many small village streets are. I carefully hung the sign on a shutter hook and stepped back looking at the light reflecting off the original glass windowpane, framing the faded velvet curtain pulled artfully aside. Satisfied, I clicked the shutter. A soft voice behind me said in French (translated), “May I help you?”
I turned and saw a lovely, middle-aged woman looking quizzically at my sign. I said, “Excuse me, is this your house?” She replied that it was her mother’s house. She said her mother was 91 and still lived there, in fact was born there. I told her I was a retired American architect living in the small village of Ayzieu. I said, “Every time I come to this village I photograph the front of your house because I think it’s so beautiful. I have 9 years of photographs! I’ve often wondered what was behind this facade.” The woman smiled shyly, cleared her throat and asked me if I would like to see behind the facade. I answered, “Really? Incredible! I’d be honored.” I hadn’t expected her to ask me inside because the French are culturally very private. As I stepped over the threshold, I wondered, why now after all these years? My long held belief about synchronicity being meaningful coincidences that stir the heart, were suddenly actualized. 
Crossing into the entry room was like entering an enchanted, 18th century version of a life-sized, medieval cabinet of wonders. I could feel the magic envelop me. I asked if I could take some photographs and she said I could. I learned the house did indeed date from 1755. It was one of the grand houses of the village, 5 stories high with a roof terrace. Original wallpaper hung from and off the walls. Nothing had been repainted in years, no furniture reupholstered, no frayed rugs rewoven or replaced. As I walked from room to room there were precious objects I just wanted to touch. reflections of their inner lives.
I don’t think it’s irrational to believe a house possesses spirits. Throughout Europe houses often had a plenitude of esoteric helpers and this house was no exception. Feeling as if I’d stepped into one of my French Country design books. I followed my hostess up to the next floor, my hand welcomed by the smooth grained, old, oak bannister that curved around a spiral staircase.
We circled and climbed…
…to the second floor, then entered the kitchen.
My heart skipped a beat when I saw the original, hand-painted tiles and antique bowls lining the shelf above the sink. “Unbelievable!”, I exclaimed in wonder.
We then crossed the landing that divided the two halves of the house and I took photos of a two lovely vignettes.
Towards the front of the house I entered the dining room with its grand table already set for a meal, although I doubted any guests were expected.
I followed to the next floor after expressing all of the French superlatives I knew.
On the way to the roof terrace I tucked my head into a bedroom study and saw this image below. Fabric was draped from the ceiling for protection from falling plaster.
I stepped up and out into the hot noon air and looked over the terrace wall to the roofs of the village below. My first thought was that this was a “womb with a view” – the magical universe of a childhood home. I’m convinced a person and his/her home aren’t separate, there truly exists an interdependent collaboration. 
I stayed on the terrace for a while, then slowly ventured down the stairs, not wanting to disturb their conversation. The closer I got to their voices, the clearer their words became. “Come in here! Come in here! I have something to show you.” her mother beckoned. So I followed her voice and respectfully entered her bedroom sanctuary.
Even though it was mid-day, the curtains were almost closed and the lights were on. The room was full of family photographs and the gossamer threads of memory. “Look, I still have my doll from when I was a little girl!” I turned and saw the woman’s 91-year-old mother absolutely bursting with joie de vivre. A sense of childhood awe bloomed in her face.
She asked if I wanted to have a little glass of Floc, a Gascon specialty of grape juice mixed with armagnac, but I declined. She said she was embarrassed to still be in her robe, but I told her it didn’t matter to me. I said I was simply delighted to meet her and thanked her and her daughter profusely for the genuine pleasure of seeing their home. Unexpectedly, she took my hand in hers. It was soft and cold. I looked into her smiling eyes. She said, “Growing old is a quiet time of ripening. Why, I just met myself in the corridor yesterday for the first time since I was 20 twenty years old! Can you imagine? I keep discovering myself in the oddest places.” I nodded and said, “I understand, “and I did. I would liked to have stayed and spoken with her at greater length, but sensed it was time to go, so I made my goodbyes and followed her daughter to the front door where we shook hands and said goodbye.
I have often heard that you cannot wander back through the gallery of your past, but this isn’t true. There is a place where our vanished days secretly gather – it’s the treasure chest of our homes.