This evening, my mom and I toured the Glessner and Clarke Houses on Prairie Ave. and 18th Street. The Glessner House was my favorite. It is warm, dark, ornamental and softly lit in a way that makes skin glow and silver sparkle. I enjoy the dimness of old-fashioned lighting because it coddles rather than exposes. I hate walking into a room and turning on a florescent light because I always get the fleeting impression that I’m catching objects in the middle of unflattering acts. Turning on a light should not be an “aha!” moment. Light should serve as a pathway that gently guides the eye around a room, pulling sight around forms and textures, allowing it to settle and rest. Obtrusive, artificial bright light belong to the likes of computer screens and televisions and to the soul-dimming confines of my office building.

The Glessner House lacks stuffiness or formality; it feels like a home one can sink into and trust. To me, it has the specific appeal of an oversized leather arm chair, which also reminds me of Chicago itself. I love this city for its livability and for the comforting familiarity provided at every turn. I realize that what I’m about to say has the ring of crazy old lady to it (and I do think that could be my inescapable fate), but sometimes when I walk around I find myself mentally addressing the city, affectionately calling it my big, gray city. I’ve spent a lot of time in Chicago and its streets have hosted the full range of my small human experience. To me, it is a city made gray less by the rain and fog that settles on brick and mortar than by the light of my happiest moments mixing with the darkness of my sadness. It holds the best and worst of me and keeps silent about both extremes. That’s a home.