Finding Home in Unexpected Places
The Sweetness of Recognition
Heart to Heartwise is your bi-monthly cuppa for the soul. Through personal stories, nostalgic moments and hard earned wisdom, it will help you slow down, tune in, and connect with life’s quiet stirrings. Best enjoyed with a cup of Yorkshire Gold tea and a moment to yourself.
Last Fall, after a morning hike with my Whoodle, Isla, the crisp autumn air alive with sunshine and warmth (Fall is always the best time of year here in Colorado), I stopped by a funky mountain art center I had often passed but never visited. It sat along a familiar route I had taken countless times when hiking—always en route from A to B, just beyond my attention. But on this day, curiosity tugged at me to explore, and the anticipation of an unexpected discovery filled me with a guilty pleasure.
The car crunched into the dusty, gravelly lot, and I wandered through a towering adobe-like entrance with rusty wrought iron gates crowned with a piece of driftwood so intricately twisted and smooth that it seemed nature had intended it to be one of the artist's sculptures. How had I bypassed this for sixteen years?
Inside the premises, I was greeted by whimsical, oversized bronzes that immediately captured me. I wandered to a staircase leading up to the central sculpture garden, enclosed by ivy-covered brick walls. From the garden, I spotted wide, shallow steps leading toward a hodgepodge of working studios and a central gallery, reminding me of the kind of artistic enclave you might stumble upon while traveling to New Mexico. Yet, here I was, just ten minutes from home, and for the first time in all these years, I felt like I had unearthed a hidden gem. A place where creativity and talent flourished, a reminder to keep doing what inspires you, what you love. I wondered what else lay outside my door, quietly waiting for me to discover it?
There's joy in stumbling upon unexpected small discoveries—how they can stir curiosity and awaken that "beginner's mind." As I continued to gaze around at all the details, I noticed a worn Indian teak bench on the porch, its scattered cushions inviting me to sit. I thought what a beautiful spot to linger with a cup of tea or a glass of wine, cradled by the towering Rocky Mountain granite, with the distant sound of a creek threading through the canyon.
I wandered inside the main gallery. The solitude was almost tangible until a man appeared seemingly out of nowhere, greeting me warmly. He introduced himself as one of the resident artists, and as we chatted, he showed me his artwork, which was hanging on the wall and stacked by his workbench. His kind soulful eyes conveyed a gentle wisdom.
When he asked where I was from, I mentioned Cheshire, in England. To my surprise, he knew it well. Fancy that! We had a connection across thousands of miles. He had lived in East Cheshire as a boy, and suddenly, we were discussing English school systems, the Eleven Plus exam, and the particular experience of growing up within that context. His school had been a comprehensive grammar school (meaning both boys and girls attended), whereas mine was an all-girls grammar school for ages eleven to eighteen. For the next fifteen minutes, we tapped into some shared history and how different the system was from the American school system.
There is weight in recognition. At that moment, no matter how small, I felt known, even if for just a moment.
It's a feeling I don't too often get to experience in the U.S. Here, people know me, of course, but I can count on one hand the friends (not family) who have the context of where I come from, the details of my upbringing. Often, people in America know only London when they think of England, as if the rest of the country doesn't exist. But to feel truly understood means to be known beyond the superficiality of where one resides—and this feeling of being known is something we all long for, don't you agree?
I had been discussing this feeling with a close friend just days before, over coffee—the sense of feeling, sometimes, like a cultural outlier. It mainly arises when a group of friends is interconnected through one thing or another (often college or growing up together). Yes, people here in America know me, of course, and I have many good friends, but they don't really know the deeper layers of family and where I'm from. They lack the history and background of my British roots, the countryside I grew up in, the education system that shaped me, and the people who shaped me. There's a difference between being liked and being indeed known; I often miss this deeper recognition. Recognition is a comfort we often take for granted until it's no longer there.
Don't we all crave connection?
Isn't the idea of 'feeling known' a universal human need—an intrinsic part of our emotional landscape? We don't just seek to be seen; we long to be deeply understood, to have someone recognize the layers that make us who we are. There is something keenly felt about recognizing our personal histories—our roots.
That small, shared moment in the art center—where I felt seen for fifteen minutes—reminded me of this sweetly. It was fleeting, but it made all the difference to my day. I floated for the rest of the day; I was on such a high.
It shows that even a tiny, serendipitous discovery close to home can feel impactful, especially when we least expect it.
How do you define the difference between being "liked" and being truly "known"?
Have you ever encountered a hidden gem near your home that made you see your surroundings in a new light?
Is there a place you pass by regularly but have never explored? What would it take to stop and take a closer look? Perhaps it's a local museum you've never been to but have heard of for years, that quaint café you keep meaning to pop into, or a scenic trail you've heard of.
I’d love to hear your thoughts.
With love and light,
Gilly