i don’t have a couch yet. or a kitchen table. i only have a bed, two side tables, a few plants and now, a floor length mirror. if i eat at home, i eat while sitting on the floor. if i am at home, i am mostly in my bed. i don’t mind this, though. it’s exactly how i imagined settling into my own place: slowly, messily, cozily but most importantly, at my own pace. in my own time.
viv and i talk about how we move slowly or rather, how we are slowish girls. we like to talk slowly, move slowly and enjoy things slowly. we appreciate the practice of taking our time and taking the time. we find a lot of comfort in going at our own pace, taking as much time as we need, relishing the time we are lucky to have. we enjoy slowness and we will always, always take the time if given a choice.
i think about that as i’ve settled into my own apartment, i think about how sometimes there has been pressure to make a house my home when it did not feel like home at all. the last time i lived alone, it didn’t start out as just my home. it was a house i shared with an ex, a house where we haphazardly bought a bunch of things from ikea that would do it’s job to fill the empty spaces but neither one of us were very invested in the furniture we were buying- let alone our future together. even after he moved out 6 months later, it still didn’t feel like my home. the only part of the house that felt like me was the bedroom. a room that had one dark, charcoal grey wall. plain white bedsheets. an antique persian rug woven with shades of oxblood, navy blue and cream, given to me by my grandmother. my nightstand filled with crystals, sage, dying flowers and postcards i bought from museums. it was the only room that i spent my time in because when i was able to take my time: i made it into a place i could retreat to. it was a room that felt like a home because it felt like me.