Farm workers traveled this week to stay at Mabel's House. We stepped inside of history. Bathed in it, slept in it, and it inspired us. In a steamy hot bath scented with lavender we looked to the left and saw what the hands of man could never hope to create. Surrounded by the color and words of D H Lawrence painted and written to soothe the soul of this woman who lived a life dedicated to filling the world with beauty,drama and inspiration.
As a writer I begged to soak long enough to be worthy of being in her space. I sat in the drawing room and felt the intense conversations of parties long ended but forever suspended in soft yellow light. Serenaded by a city of long tailed birds.
Artists still come to sit in magnificent sturdy chairs at tables piled high with hot scones and eggs with black beans chilies and cheese. They meet, they talk, and they find love. They laugh and live as their passion decrees. It is as she would have loved it to be.
Writers still filling their pages with words written on black sticky courier typewriters in the little rooms downstairs. Photographers cannot resist stopping to unload their bags of lenses.
There is magic in this place. Magic that crosses the centuries, spreads out over a huge meadow and drapes itself over the mountains where you can see the wind. It speaks to me, calls me and wraps its clear blue sky around me like a long lost lover returned to claim me. Farm workers have left a piece of themselves in the cave of an ancient woman grinding corn on a stone. Their hot pink toes were painted with flowers and appreciated as small works of art.
