There’s this woman I know. She’s in her early sixties. I always picture her taller than I am but we’re actually the same height. She has long hair that falls past her shoulders in gentle waves, blonde and gray. Her clothes are casual and appear to be really nice quality, always fitting her well in the prettiest, softest looking fabrics. She’ll wear, say, worn, loose-fitting jeans with a simple white tee and a lovely oatmeal colored sweater jacket, finished with classic Birkenstocks and jewelry that seems to tell a story - a dusty purple pearl on a chain around her neck, a hundred-year old diamond ring, a few bracelets layered on her wrist, some of them just a whisper of gold chain.
Her home is just the same - lovely and deeply personal. Natural light floods in through the big windows of her bright cottage, landing in pools of light on old hardwood floors. It’s somehow both small and spacious at the same time. Art hangs on the walls in just the right places, unexpected and interesting. A colorful chair makes a statement in a corner, contrasting the mostly neutral-colored pieces. In the kitchen, herbs hang to dry in corners which will later find their way into apothecary jars for tastes or into vases to brighten a table.