why I like my house

In "The Symbolism of Habitat," a book that is both slendor and fascinating (the best of all worlds!), Jay Appleton teaches me why I like my house. Landscapes, he explains, whether natural or built, shape our emotions as well as our space. They entice us or repel us; draw us in or keep us out; enchant us, lure us and scare us, often all at the same time.

Specifically, he speaks of views and symbols that evoke feelings of prospect (the future - with its promises and hopes, and titillation of adventure) and refuge (safety, comfort and the reassurance of home).

As you might imagine, distant horizons, mountain ranges and valleys, even rivers or trails rounding a bend, offer us a sense of prospect. The open space between us and them, the remove from our daily burdens that they suggest, a new world beyond our wildest imagination, invite us, sometimes even taunt us, with their beckoning.

On the other hand, we are drawn to castles. Towers on lofty heights, citadels, peaks, high roofs that stand defiant above the surrounding landscape. They promise physical superiority, strong walls around us, security against an onslaught of attacks from the outside.

Cozy houses capture this sense of safety wrapped up in a nested space. With their well-fitting roofs slung comfortably low on solid foundations, a wreath or knocker on their well-worn doors, they symbolize the place we want to be. (An enchanting treatment of such buildings, and the disappearing community they create, can be found in the charming, little-known book: Passing the Time in Ballymenone, by Henry H. Glassie.)

My house, Appleton led me to understand, has both prospect and refuge built into its silhouette. The entryway, the most vulnerable place in any house, rises 15 feet from floor to roof. I never understood why we needed this height - it certainly makes changing the lightbulbs in the foyer a nuisance. But in view of Appleton's book, I see that it is reminiscent of European castles, citadels on the hill, projecting their impenetrability and might, and protecting those within from unwelcome incursions from without.

And as the entryway swaggers, our rooms embrace. They offer comfort and healing from within. So - we have rooms with low ceilings, echoed in the roof-lines above. Our rooms offer hearthy feelings in earthy tones, with overstuffed chairs that are large enough to curl up in, yet small enough to feel swaddled and cuddled, coddled and protected.

Learning to read the symbolism of the landscape is like learning a second language. Or better, a language we have been speaking all along, without knowing it. Reading landscapes helps us better understand our reactions to the spaces around us, be they streetscapes, malls or the rooms of our own home. And it helps us to better inform our city planners how to build places that nourish our spirits, and strengthen community, in a world where sharing well is becoming increasingly important.