FOUNDER’S LETTER

from Greenwich Magazine June 2022

VOWS

founder’s page

JUNE 2022 / DONNA MOFFLY

“The antique gun that Jack’s mother lifted from some poor tribesman in Afghanistan and the African knife weren’t acceptable.” OF LUCKY LIVING

I’ve lived in the same house in Riverside for almost sixty years. It’s a lucky house. It tried to burn itself down once (a faulty charger ignited Jack’s workbench in the basement), but we got a nearly new house on Chubb. Good ol’ Chubb.

I know it’s lucky because long ago Connie Fisher, an expert on feng shui, told us so. That’s the 3,000-year-old Chinese tradition in which it is said that how and where you build your house and arrange your rooms affects your fortune. It’s about getting rid of the “secret arrows” and getting the chi (energy) flowing so you can work, sleep, think, love, laugh and breathe more easily—thus you’re a happier, more prosperous person.

Here were some of her observations.

OUTSIDE: Our house faces East. North would be better for business (uh-oh, I’ve been editing from home during the pandemic), but East was good for our family. A comforting thought. I draw the line at turning the house around.

The weeping cherry was too close to the front door, making it hard for energy to enter. But it was good we'd replaced the trees blown down by a storm, because it shows we believe in future generations. (Today, that weeping cherry is on its last roots. I plan to replace it with a young one in a slightly more auspicious spot.)

FRONT DOOR: The front door was black, a color the Chinese consider very lucky, especially for a front door because it attracts, absorbs and brings in positive energy. (Now it’s painted red, the traditional color of Chinese wedding dresses. So good luck on that one, too.) And eagles being fiercely protective, our eagle door knocker kept away evil spirits.

FRONT HALL: The big mirror was fabulous, because mirrors reflect away evil spirits and secret arrows. The gallery of paintings ascending the curved staircase to the second floor, especially one of ballet dancers, made it easier to walk upstairs.

LIVING ROOM: The little Regency desk at the entrance was good, because it kept us in touch with the comings and goings in the house; and the peach walls gave the room life. The wind chimes tinkling on the terrace made happy sounds, great for moving energy; and feng shui hates sharp edges, so the curve of the piano was nice. Our “wealth corner” had three goldframed French fans in increasing sizes and a brass stirrup on the table below “to catch the coins. It’s like a progress of building wealth here,” said Connie, adding that unlike us, the Chinese aren’t at all shy about talking about money.

However, the antique gun that Jack’s mother lifted from some poor tribesman in Afghanistan and the African knife weren’t acceptable. Feng shui doesn’t approve of weapons in the house, even knives at the dinner table. The Chinese eat with chopsticks and cut things up in the kitchen.

FAMILY ROOM: Born in the Year of the Rat, Connie wasn’t wild about Vincent, the real live tuxedo cat sleeping on the couch, or Beth Henry’s bronze sculpture of a reclining cougar

(too ferocious), but at least he (or she) wasn’t on the prowl. The needlepoint backgammon table I’d stitched with dragons was a big hit. “Dragons are so auspicious,” she marveled, “for good luck, strength, goodness, male fertility, you name it!” The beak of a duck decoy was pointing right at the little table where Jack and I often ate, a secret arrow she neutralized by turning it in another direction. The overhead wood beams were our biggest problem—too divisive.

DINING ROOM: The silk flower centerpiece was good. The Chinese like an abundance of flowers, but never dried, which suggest death. The jade plant on the sideboard was wonderful with its little coin-shaped leaves, as though we were “growing our own wealth.” But no cactuses in the house, please.

KITCHEN: The stove was adjacent to the sink. Good. If they had been opposite each other, fire and water would clash and cause arguments. In the kitchen? God forbid. A spot of green being an instant feng shui fix, the woven green mat was a nice precaution. The yellow floor was great, a resting color good for digestion.

DEN: The bookcases were a problem because Grandfather’s books were pushed back far enough to show the knife edge of each shelf. Bringing them forward two inches made everything right.

LAVATORY: Connie puzzled over the significance of our novel Lucite toilet seat with mint coins embedded in the rim. While water is propitious where money is concerned—she noted that financial firms seem to hang a lot of seascapes in their offices—“you risk flushing your coins down the toilet, and the magic is that they don’t go!” she offered. (If they did, the plumbing would go, too.) “Maybe it’s lucky?”

MASTER BEDROOM: The foot of our bed faced the door—not terrific because you’re carried out feet first when you die, but a love seat at the end of the bed helped break up the unfortunate traffic pattern. There were too many windows (they decrease your sense of protection), and too many mirrors (they cause strife between husband and wife). Besides, you don’t want to be reflected too much when you’re sleeping, your most vulnerable time. Fortunately, the walls were green, not red, which was a sign of infidelity. (Hmmm. It’s about those wedding dresses.)

BACK BEDROOM: “If your bedroom’s over the garage, you’re going to travel more,” Connie observed. No joke. It was Jonathan’s, now our CEO. After college, he’d gone around the world on his own with just a forty-pound backpack, gotten his M.B.A. in Sydney and worked in Tokyo where he met his Russian wife. He still travels whenever he can, but with Elena, most of their five kids and a lot of luggage. And that bedroom has become my office.

Funny. A lot of this feng shui stuff started making sense to me. In any case, I love my house and plan to stay in it—with or without a secret arrow or two. G