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A train rumbles near my house every night, but I can no longer hear it. When you’ve lived in a city too long, as I have, you wake up one day and find you’ve been numbed—whether you like it or not—to its noise and energy.
Airdropping into the stillness of nature for two nights has always been the best balm for my overtaxed brain, which is usually found saddled with writing deadlines, multi-tasking while half-watching Netflix, or gazing at a stack of books I never seem to have time enough to read. After a weekend among the trees or the fields or the lakes, I leave feeling energized, reminded that the natural world ticks at its own pace, and that we—as humans—are merely one small part of it.
But it can also be scary. Being in harmony with nature and having the freedom to direct your own days may sound idyllic on the surface, but it also requires a major mental shift. Staying overnight at the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed Seth Peterson Cottage in 2022—an 880-square-foot cottage perched above Mirror Lake in Central Wisconsin, built for the eponymous young man who committed suicide before it was completed in 1958—the nearest neighbors were too far away to measure in feet or miles. Walls of windows without curtains led me to open myself up to more than just wildlife views (although seeing a raccoon nestle into the bird feeder was quite a hoot). For the next 24 hours, with no television and a vow to fully unplug, I was vulnerable in a different way: alone with my thoughts, the buzzing, ambient layer of a city now peeled off.
To be clear, I was not literally alone. My husband was with me. We’d brought books, so our companions that first night were novels. Never before had I read 150 pages of a book in one day, or even one sitting. I soon realized this was a testament to Wright’s design. His organic style of architecture is about more than simply blending the house with its natural surroundings. I’ve learned, over my many stays in Wright’s houses, that he’s dictating—however subtly—how he wants you to spend your time there.
Most of Wright’s properties—of which only a few are open for overnight stays—feature small, cramped bedrooms. The kitchens are also tight, usually in a galley layout. Wright loved to eat and entertain, but cooking? Not so much. As a result, there’s no other place to hang out—at least if you’re seeking comfort—than the sprawling living room, which is always anchored by a fireplace, like the stacked sandstone version at the Seth Peterson Cottage. Wright’s characteristic open layout translates to an easy flow between rooms, and the lack of interior walls feels freeing. Somehow, even when my husband left the cottage for a short walk and I sat studying the way light bounces on the honey-stained walls floor and flagstone flooring, I never felt truly alone.
This cottage—an hour from Madison, where we sheepishly sought out modern conveniences including a vinyl record store (for him) and oat-milk latte (for me) after checking out—hasn’t been my only overnight in a Wright-designed home. Growing up near Chicago, where the highest concentration of his projects exists, I was already familiar with Wright’s work. Moving to Wisconsin later in life, however, his houses and public sites were often in my rear-view mirror, whether on a bicycle or in the car. Sharing the same geographical space day in and day out made me feel more deeply knit to Wright’s buildings—so much so that I even ended up writing a book about them.
On the night prior to our stay at Seth Peterson Cottage, we’d fallen asleep in the primary bedroom at the 3,000-square-foot Usonian-style Still Bend in Two Rivers, Wisconsin. Also known as the Bernard and Fern Schwartz House, it was built in 1938 as a subtle adaption of Wright’s “Dream Home” design for an issue of Life. (In addition to overnight stays, tours of the home are available.) The house is steeped in a middle-of-last-century design vernacular—think green-shag carpeting and wood paneling in the bedroom—which is just how co-owner Michael Ditmer intended it, even after a major restoration. Almost everything, down to the bar glassware, is from that era.
The backyard faces a river, and just before sunset we took our wine glasses out to the lawn, doing nothing but take in the view of swimming ducks, the water impossibly still compared to Lake Michigan’s rumbling waves a few blocks away. We also confirmed what we’d heard on a tour earlier: at night, the back of the house looks like a Chinese lantern. It occurred to me that I’ve never really looked at the back of my own house at night, as I’m either already inside or hurrying back after an evening out. Wright’s houses may evoke a feeling of slowness and contemplation, but the only real way to describe it—and the only real way for it to impact how you appreciate your surroundings on your return to normal life—is to wake up in one yourself.
Still, all of this blissful solitude pales in comparison to the ultimate Frank Lloyd Wright homestay: one of the four homes he designed that were built between 1950 and 1954, commissioned by scientists at a local pharmaceutical company who were also friends in Galesburg, Michigan. A year earlier, in 2021, rusty on travel due to the pandemic, I began my first night of a research-based road trip to experience Wright’s designs by pulling into The Acres’ long driveway and searching for the Samuel and Dorothy Eppstein House, another one of Wright’s Usonian-style designs. (Unlike towering Victorians or modern farmhouses, a sea of nearly identical ranch-level homes with concrete block and mahogany exteriors in a hilly neighborhood aren’t all that easy to spot.)
After a jolly 10 minutes peeking into each of the bedrooms and choosing which one I’d hunker down in, I poured myself a glass of wine and sat down at the cantilevered desk in the dining room, leafing through one of the most comprehensive collections of Wright books I’ve ever seen. Through a wall of windows, my phone off, and with no one to talk to, I watched the sun crest into the green hills, the end of another day.
Now, when I’m stressed at home—which is more often than I’d like, given I work from home—I remember these meditative moments where time appeared to stand still. Strangely enough, I’m then able to channel that feeling all over again. Sure, I may not be able to plunk down in a Wright-designed barrel chair or spread myself out over one of his sleek wooden desks, but my evenings spent in those houses serve as a constant and necessary reminder that I can pick up a book, put down my phone, turn off the television, and read. Or maybe, just choose to do nothing.
