Saying Goodbye to Mabel

Before I can dig into the history of Mabel Dodge Luhan in Taos (if, indeed, I decide to do that at all) (see previous post Day Trip) I feel like I want to write a goodbye letter to her house (see previous posts Retreat and Rebirth and Heading to Mabel’s). I arrived home a little over a week ago and I’m so happy to be here, but that old house, and her people, took such very good care of me while I was there.

I mean the dining room, probably my favorite room in the whole house, with its fireplace alcove and Indian blanket-weave ceiling, seemed to shimmer with the history of conversations long past. This room, where I had breakfast every morning, had nurtured the likes of Willa Cather, Aldous Huxley, Georgia O’Keeffe (to whom Mabel had given a studio when she first came to New Mexico in 1929), Ansel Adams, Martha Graham, Leopold Stokowski, Andrew Dasburg… on and on… and now me.

I developed the happy habit, while there, of going down for afternoon coffee and homemade cookies. I wish I could say it was tea and thereby somehow justify it as a lovely English tradition (a thin thread anyway I know). But I was on retreat after all and was there to be kind to myself. What could be kinder than homemade cookies, baked throughout the day so they were always fresh and sometimes even still warm?

And not to sound too defensive here (too late) but these cookies weren’t just any cookies; they were gorgeous to look at, a different assortment every day, and probably better than almost any cookies I’ve ever had. Each recipe was just sweet enough. No heavy hand went into these. In fact I got the feeling they were old and time-tested, like the house.

Picture, for a moment, those little round wedding cakes, the ones rolled in powdered sugar when they’re still warm so the sugar sticks; well, Mabel’s were made with our own local PINE NUTS (!) Yeah. Imagine them nestled on plates alongside honey-colored, peanut butter cookies in all their crosshatched glory, plus dense, dark brownies and those really thin, almost crisp, chocolate chip cookies that are practically lacy and melt in your mouth; and then there was a plump little fat version too, and well, you begin to get the idea.

I decided, for the duration of my stay, “kind” would be defined as HAVING cookies, not NOT having them, the definition I take at home, in order to lose weight, ostensibly. Honestly, too much of my life has been filled with punishing control. At Mabel’s I chose to take down my hair a bit. So it was decided. Cookies.

And not only during the day. Oh no, nighttime figured into the delicious, (guilty–can’t help it) practice as well…

And, oh, that old house at night was even more disarming than during the daytime. Embraced in its own silence it seemed to breathe out its own long-held memories of cigars and port, charades and piano. 1919.

But back to daylight: When I went down for this daily ritual of cookies I had a habit of taking up a seat in the alcove near Tony Luhan’s fireplace, fashioned by him when he was dissatisfied with what the builders had made (more about him later—maybe—he was Mabel’s fourth and final husband). Anyway, one day Julie Keefe, the house’s General Manager, asked if she could join me.

And she told me her story; one of visits to Taos over the years, of discovering Mabel’s house and consciously thinking it would be her dream job to work there. She told of following one sign and another, and then the final, huge, life changing leap it required to very magically put herself right there in her dream job.

It took courage and love, the path that wound Julie there, and sensitivity and trust. And I think the house is like that. It seems to stir magic in those it touches.

And I was touched by Julie’s testament of faith. It inspired a bittersweet remembrance: I used to be like her. And sitting in that fireplace alcove of Mabel Luhan’s most special house, a part of me decided I could possibly be again.

Stepping into the huge old kitchen to (sorry) microwave my coffee (I can’t help it I love it HOT and I use lots of cream) it was easy to picture Mabel and D. H. Lawrence huddled there, planning and designing a better world, over hot coffee and eggs, at the big pine table situated under one of its windows. Stirring magic.

And, as an aside, I found this rather funny: I was told by one of the bakers that Mabel had her bedroom built right above the kitchen so she could hear everything people were saying down there. She definitely wanted to be first with any tidbits of gossip.

I was also told, by Judy I believe, that Mabel had this window put in over the sink for her geraniums specifically…

And then there is what I like to think of as her “salon,” a couple of stairs up from her living room. I can just see Carl Jung and Robertson Jeffers, deep in discussion in this very place. In fact I can imagine many of the creative guests the house has nurtured throughout its life in this room. The room is like that.

As a consequence of all of this, since leaving Mabel’s place, I find myself using the sweet memories of my stay there to lull myself to sleep some nights. It’s calming to let them wash over me, recalling the many ways I was comforted in that gracious place made of mud, straw, wood and tile. And it softens something deep inside me that seems to so badly need softening.

The house truly is extraordinary. As are her people.

The solarium wasn’t available for the last night of my stay so I had to change rooms (note the painted windows below it, painted for Mabel by D. H. Lawrence). Thus my last day and night in the solarium was not my last night at Mabel’s, mercifully.

But that last day in my little glass palace, as I came to call the room, may have been my very favorite. A big windstorm blew in from the north and it got very cold out. I could watch it snowing up in the mountains, moving across the hills, from my cozy glass perch…

I love a good storm so, that combined with it having been quite warm the previous days, it was something of a small pleasure to have to ask for a portable heater that day of the wintry weather. My glorious wee room set on top of Mabel’s mud pile wasn’t built to hold out the wind or to keep in the warmth. But the little heater (along with the room’s baseboard radiant heaters) kept me more than snug. I was beyond cozy…

… so it was an ideal day for staying in—all day—in the room…

… except for those quite necessary cookie runs down to the dining room… one must do what one must do…

… but other than that, I was in bed for a good part of that day, reading…

… ah reading, one of the main reasons for taking my retreat in the first place…

That last day and night were so peaceful. I felt wrapped round with everything a person could possibly desire. Pure contentedness.

In fact I came to understand it would have been very hard for me to go from my cozy nest in the solarium straight out of the house entirely, in one go, all the way, cold turkey…

So I used part of that last day to mentally gather myself and prepare, emotionally, to move out the next morning.

And I found, even more than I’d realized, I needed that transitional step in between leaving the nest and leaving the house. And the thing is the house seemed to KNOW I needed it, which is, I think, why the solarium was booked and I had to move out, to change rooms one night before leaving my retreat entirely…

Let’s just say the house has inspired some magical thinking in this erstwhile cynic, but we’ll leave that for another post, shall we?

So the house and I, cozy together, celebrated my last solarium night with a gorgeous sunset…

… to wish me on my way…

And then came the peace of sweet darkness…

… the storm went on its way…

… and left the night breathlessly still.

The next morning dawned crystalline bright with no trace of the previous day’s storm…

After a relaxed breakfast speaking with the very nice woman who was taking over the solarium that night, I realized I needed to get packing. Literally. It was surprising how settled I’d become in just three nights. It was almost as though I believed I was there to stay. If only…

I think a part of me imagined an artistic life lived exactly like that with a patron not unlike Mabel. I could easily see myself sitting for a lifetime in that little room, at that little desk, writing. But this was 2016 not 1919 and Mabel was gone and I needed to move one floor down to her room. Yes, you heard that right. I spent my last night in her actual bedroom.

Tony had painted this stunning little piece on the wall at her entryway…

… and this one as well. They leave a sense of spirit there, in that passageway. In fact they feel sacred, as though Tony was blessing Mabel’s room.

It had its own private entrance (!) as well as another interior entryway…

…and felt large after my stay in the solarium. It had a fireplace…

… her own massive bed that had been built in the room (I didn’t get a good photo of it I’m afraid. There’s a possible explanation later)…

…a separate bathroom for the shower, a sitting room…

… and perhaps, just possibly, her ghost. I mean nobody mentioned this to me when I booked the room or during my three-night stay in the solarium. But I came home from dinner that night…

… and just felt a bit edgy in my new room.

Curiously, that disquiet increased as I showered and got into my jammies…

I snuggled in to watch the PBS NewsHour but was still slightly uneasy…

Now I’ve lived alone for most of my adult life and am not taken to imaginings at being in a new place. But it occurred to me, alone in that beautiful old house, in Mabel’s very own lovely suite of rooms, that I wasn’t actually alone.

Still, it wasn’t a creepy feeling, but rather “tender” if that makes any sense. Even so I decided to make it an early night and just nip these feelings in the bud. I wasn’t sure I felt like communing, if you know what I mean, or even to think too closely about it.

I guess, the truth is, although the whole house radiated with memories of Mabel, her bed felt somehow too personal to me. I mean this was Mabel Dodge Luhan’s BED for goodness sake! It felt almost sacrilegious for me to sleep in it.

However, although it took awhile to fall asleep, I did sleep well.

But here’s the thing: I’m a very still sleeper. I don’t toss and turn (I’ve been told) and I almost always wake up in the same position I was in when I fell to sleep.

Well, I woke in Mabel’s bed, in Mabel’s room, and all of the bed covers were a snarled lump in the center of the bed—the sheets, the blanket and the bedspread–were a tangled mess. AND the mattress had been pushed off the box springs about three or four inches. Hmmm… (ZERO pictures of this I’m afraid).

And then, as I was leaving, I offered to show two guests her room before I gave up my key. We stepped down her stairs, into her suite, and one of the women asked if I’d had any weird feelings while staying there, in Mabel’s room. I told them, honestly, what I just told you and they both said they’d had several couples of friends who had stayed there and had similar stories to tell.

And Julie, the General Manager, admitted there are stories, all of them gentle though and even quite sweet she says.

Haunted wouldn’t be a term I would use. I don’t think when one loved as much as Mabel did, when one believed in things greater than herself and was committed to creating something beautiful, something better, for those of us coming along behind, those people don’t haunt. They may, however, stop by to check in from time to time to see if we’re honoring their legacy, to see if we’re doing it well.

And I have to say, Mabel, I think you left your place in very, very good hands. But don’t stop coming round. The world still needs strong believers like you in it because I’m afraid humanity, as a whole, really isn’t getting it very right these days.

So you stay in touch and, maybe, on your small bit of the planet, we will find moments of that utopia you sought after all. I sure did, talking with Julie and Judy and Mariah. And having hot mugs of good coffee over homemade cookies whenever I felt like it. Now that’s what I call utopia.

I took one last look throughout the house’s various living spaces…

… strolled one more time along that wonderful portal…

… and headed past the pigeon boxes for the Jeep. It was time to go home.

I hope you, Julie, Judy and Mariah, understand how moved I’ve been by my stay with you. This little illustrated story is my small thank you for what you do in that grand old house, and for what you did for me… and thanks to you too Mabel. You all have created a miraculous, healing place. Bless you.

Until we meet again, which may be sooner than any of us thinks.

Love to you all,

Jeane