Part of this text has been rehashed from a previous letter on Engawas and foyers. A lot more people read my newsletter now and this topic is pretty cool, so here we are at it again.
Next letter will be a surprise treat, so buckle up, buckaroo! And if you haven’t yet, please like and subscribe. It makes Jo know you know.
Laretta dear,
In the lovely book on Edo period Japan you gave me, there is talk of the engawa.
The raised veranda and the depth of the eaves allows someone seated there to converse easily with someone outside while both are sheltered from sun or rain.
“Just Enough“ - the Engawa
Neighbors can chat informally but sheltered, crops can be hanged to dry, the engawa is an extension of the interior space of the house. An in-between space.
In-between spaces are places of a particular type of magic. In permaculture, the boundaries between two systems are considered more fertile, as they take elements from both systems and add new ones as well.
So, when building a pond for example, permaculture would advise to build as long and wavy a water edge as possible, to maximize the potential for new boundary magic.
In house design those spaces can be porches, sit-in niches and nooks by a big glazing, shuttered windows, winter gardens and greenhouses, a bench under the eave, protected from the wind.. They are places where we are neither in nor out, where all of the elements of nature can still get to us, though only in a muffled or controlled way. We feel the sun warming our bodies and it's colder than inside, yet we are still protected. Or maybe we still endure the sweat of the summer heatwave, but also let a controlled breeze cool us down. You know I just love these types of places.
Modern houses seem to lack in-between spaces. There is the outside, unpredictable and hostile, and there is the inside, up-to-standard comfort of environmental settings, filters and thermostats. The communication we used to have with nature through our buildings is gone. And what does that make of us?
Another feature of in-between spaces is their flexibility. They open and shut, they lift and cover, they permeate. Or rather we makes them do so. We adapt our house to nature as we see fit. Which means we feel nature enough to know when to open or shut, and when to cover up. We read the clouds and feel the wind and dress our house accordingly. And if we read the clouds and feel the wind and listen to nature, maybe, just maybe, we're more inclined to try and save it?
Doors are the in-between space par excellence. They embody all the possibilities of “the other side” while being neither here nor there. And the engaging with one is like a Schrodinger’s cat. Or like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.
So here is a most beautiful poem by Kristina Klee Horning:
The door
Today, have you noticed?
Have you noticed when you entered a room or a building how the door sounded when you opened them?
Have you noticed how the door sounded when you closed them?
My door is silent when I approach it. The cool feeling of the metal enters my senses when I touch the doorknob.
Almost instantly the metal warms up under my hand and we connect.
The door is still silent.
I push down the lever of the doorknob, there is a click. It is not just one click, it is a short percussion, small musical interlude, release of the latch.
The instant the door is open sound changes.
There is a whoosh, air moves, spaces meet and the door is still silent.
I pause. The echo changed.
Now, what?
Do I enter through the opening, cross the threshold?
Today I am going through.
When I face the door again and close it, it finally makes sound.
It makes deep, low, double beat, sound.
Friendly sound of farewell..
—
Kristina Klee Horning
What sound does your doorknob make? What inside place makes you feel like you're outside?
As always yours,
Jo
PS. The book on Edo period Japan is called “Just Enough: Lessons in Living Green from Traditional Japan” and there’s even a website dedicated to it, it seems.