I’ve been thinking about what makes a house a home. When you’re decorating or furnishing, there’s a temptation to go on Pinterest – and I have – to find out what your home ‘should’ look like, to rush out and buy lots of trendy things and to immediately furnish it from top to bottom. Which is fun, don’t get me wrong. I almost spent $140 on a throw the other day, and I might yet! It was a beautiful throw. But I wonder if, in a new place, we partly we want to rush through the liminal space of not-quite-our-home-yet that is a bit uncomfortable and lies between the place we were and the place we yearn to find ourselves. Though we can move our physical selves, the transition of something else inside us – the ungraspable thing, in our soul or some place mysterious – isn’t immediate and can’t be rushed. Plus I still get the sense that this house is being handed over, or slowly transitioning, from the previous owner whose imprint and presence lingers, who grasped these door handles, walked this lino kitchen floor – maybe with a cup of tea in hand after a long day of rainy gardening – and stared up at the same ceiling tiles each night, thinking about who knows what. It’s not creepy or haunting, it’s more just a sense his life is dissolving from the house while ours blooms. I know many people wouldn’t even think about this or admit to such thoughts, but… I don’t know, I do think about these things. And I kind of like it. 😌
Aaaaw, beautiful piece and there's that beautiful blanket! 🩷💛🩵