When friends come to my home the first thing they notice is that it does not look like it did the last time they visited and that’s atypically who I am. Unable to dwell in the same view without thinking something ought to move, a colour ought to change, a desk ought to bend like so and don’t even get me started on my bookshelves. My mind is restlessly creative listlessly wandering about what more can be achieved in a space as mine.
My apartment is just that; an apartment with one bedroom a modest sized kitchen big enough for one person just right for two or three. The living room slash working space slash library; it’s more of a salon really, is big enough for a family of four in my opinion. The bedroom is big enough to be split into two if unlike me you do not have a mini department store of clothes, shoes, handbags, coats and a peloton bike. The bathroom is just right for a family of three. The hallway though small is not so small if you get my drift.
I love my apartment and I may never leave. In most circles it’s a small space and so there’s limitations to what they would do with it. In this here circle it is big because I can never find anything in it and blame the evil twin when things go missing. No, I don’t have a twin, but my characters do; as a writer I often wonder if my characters come to life and have a kick about when I’m not home just to simply mess with me. I told you, I am restlessly creative.
I always thought I’d be one of those people who lives in an Apple Store type space everything in its place, everything lined and linear, but more fool me. I have stuff. A LOT of stuff. When the movers moved me in years ago one literally asked if I ran a clothing business because he’d never seen so many clothes belong to one person in his life. Mind you I cull my closet every quarter but then I probably don’t dig deep enough and that’s because I regret selling my Prada bag to one of those vintage places some ten years ago so there’s that little hamburger at the back of my mind.
But truth be told I love a place with stuff not just tat for the sake of tat but stuff that tells a story.
If my friends were to describe my home, they would say it is lived in and fluid and endlessly creative. I love a gallery wall, and I have one every room even my kitchen and my little hallway, in the closet half of my bedroom, and the sleeping half. As a photographer with a print store, I cannot help but tell stories with my walls. I have sitting enough for ten and a dining table that I’ve never used but hope to someday. I have a modest pantry and a fat pantry cupboard. I have books and notebooks and blankets and wine glasses. I have nearly 100 bottles of wine red and white and not to tote up the champagne. I entertain on occasion and I have a tv that I think could be bigger. I blend this all in with modern conveniences and technology which is often at odds with my fluid living space.
Lived in spaces fell stories of full lives. Do I wish my pantry could be bigger? Of course, but then I’d just throw more food in it. Do I wish I had a cellar for my wines? Absolutely but I’d just buy more bottles. Do I wish I had a walk-in closet? Good God yes but I’d never stop buying clothes and I have enough to last me a lifetime. Don’t even get me started on my skin care and make up. If I went five years without buying anything more but body cream, I’d never lack. And so, my space is just right. I love to move it around love to see how liquid it can get. Love to play with the angles and I love to move things only to move them back. It’s the story of our lives because it is in how we live we tell our stories; life changes every so often and our lives in spaces move to reflect that as often as we let it.
I love flowers. I love candles. I love pictures I love music on my many speakers. I love the way my side tables are stacked with stuff love the blanket half hanging half falling. I love my skewed wall with my clock which a friend bought for me from Ikea as a moving present. I love the darkness of my bathroom and the pinkness of my bedroom. I don’t have a laundry room, so I love to see my clothes rack drying in my bedroom with the windows open, especially in the summer. I love my big couch which I got from a friend who was moving back to the states and that moved with me to every bedroom I lived in taking up all the space before settling in here, to continue our story. I love my big working table in the corner of my living room. I love the feeling of walking through the door after a long day and settling into bed for a night in. I look in the corner of my bedroom where my plants can get a room of their own to thrive, one in one out, the cactus died. RIP. Now, it’s a climbing Ivy and she is doing just fine. Home. It is a sense of grounding and comfort and despite the stresses of the world outside, within these walls of home I take a deep breath and know I’m going to be okay because my stories surround me and my one plant is still alive and thriving.
I love books I love books everywhere. I love my coffee table that I got off Amazon after the first one I got lost its legs I love the spaces I never use but discover on another rejig of the lay out and make plans for them. This is home. It’s where we live and love and never leave in our hearts because our memories reside here. Our good and bad and mid memories are all here all ours and we live with them and they form our lives and move around with us.
Spaces ought to be lived in because our memories deserve spaces that hold them dear. That is the joy of a home well and truly lived in because home is an eternal love story.