I am still working on my extensive blog, but in the meantime I might as well throw bones to my readers. Some days it is not easy to put something out there simply because of the lack of time in the day to develop something really good. Tonight I am writing from the bed of my teenage years as I am spending the night at my mother’s house. I am not exactly sure at what time in our lives the houses we live in during our childhoods cease to be ours and begin to be “my mom’s place”. I would imagine this transition to come at about the same time we start calling our present dwellings “home”. I never called college home, mostly because I couldn’t consider a place where I shared one single room with another girl and the amassment of our belongings (which equals that of a small village) “home”. And yet my present digs feels like home to me as I have come into my own and began my own version of homemaking. This consists of the following things in my house:
-Two pieces of wall art that my cousin made me buy to cover up my stark white walls. I strategically placed them where the previous owner had put nails.
-A framed article of the one thing I ever had published in my college newspaper. I put it up because it’s where I found a third nail.
-A painting of a log cabin and trees on butcher paper held up by blue painter’s tape which my friend made as a decoration for a lumberjack party we had at my house a few weeks ago.
-A gaggle of unfolded dish towels by my bedside which I’ve been meaning to fold for over two weeks.
-A bedroom where the only discernible order is the fact that my books are organized on the shelves by genre.
-A sectional sofa (rejected from my mother’s house), an area rug (rejected from a friend’s house), a lamp (which is my roommate’s who is currently moving out, meaning I must get a new lamp), a table lamp (rejected from another friend’s house) and an end table which my mother also did not want. The only thing that is new is the television and the stand it is on. I am proud of this.
-Kitchen gadgets: despite having a sparsely decorated home and mostly rejected furniture, I have wonderful kitchen gadgets. Considering that my other dearly loved habit (besides mediocre blogging) is cooking, I must be prepared for that.
That is the place I call home, where I rest my head at the end of the day of work, where I sometimes entertain guests but mostly see as a respite from the company of others. Home may mean other things to other people, but for me, it is mostly a place of respite and refuge, a place where I can manage to hide away a little bit, even though every undesired catalogue in the world seems to find its way to my door. But that’s okay, because it’s not uncommon at all for me to use junk mail as a napkin.