Usually, in summer months, I cast myself out into the world early in the day. My regular turf includes the ravines and the cemetery, a street nearby that I fantasize (against every odd) about living on and a bench under a tree I sometimes take my coffee to.
But lately, my workload has meant I'm often stuck indoors at my desk. And when I'm not bringing work home, I'm stuck in the office, wishing I could get home. I think it's because of this that I'm feeling very nesty lately. My senses are heightened to every angle of light in my apartment and the tactile qualities of my furnishings, the fragrance too of beeswax and steeped tea and lemon blossoms.
It fascinates me to think how other people see my home. It feels like such a merged part of me I can't conjure that objectivity. When I think about buying a new piece of furniture or drapes, it's so much more than a material acquisition: It's a chair I hope to sit in at 4am, when I start writing and light candles. And yes I think (and care) about the design too, but the scene is a picture I place myself in, not a disassociated magazine-style decor spread.
I'm sometimes repulsed that talk of "taste" and "style" has come to dominate these intimate extensions of ourselves. That homes are broken down so materially and technically -- the right shade of white, the light fixture by so-and-so. And yet, at the same time, I recognize that I'm part of that consumption and part of that obsessiveness too. I acquire slowly and deliberately. I cultivate a certain style, whatever it is. I save for a very long time before I spend. I cast around for options and pay attention to all the details.
Still: When that intimate connection to home, to something sheltering, safe, enveloping and shared is left out of the dialogue, I detest concepts of decor style. So, as I'm feeling nesty right now and thinking about buying things, I'm trying to think less about the commerce of it, the transaction and the unboxing. And to think instead about the experience three months in, the experience five years from now, about the reflection I'll see of myself through it all, the memories and longing that certain objects will cast back to, long after their polish has turned to patina.