I've always been a nester. And for a long time that has meant caring about decor, thinking about my style, looking at design blogs and magazines and seeing stuff; stuff I loved, stuff I could or couldn't afford, things I could fill my home with.
I don't want to pretend I'm over that, that I'm immune to fantasizing about Carl Hansen chairs or gorgeous accessories. But I want to explain that the way I feel about home has become so much bigger than the sum of those parts. I love my home. Not because I think my decor is special. Not because I look at it through "design" eyes.
I love my home because it holds so many things that I treasure, because the light on weekend mornings always makes me pause, because the plants on my windowsill seem so happy. Because friends gather here but moreso because it's often just me and I feel safe and calm here.
I have friends right now whose lives are in flux. They're moving and starting over. I can, of course, relate to all of that. But liberating as the fresh start is, exciting as all of that potential is, I can't help but be glad for the roots I now feel, the sense of place that underpins everything. The pure steadiness of this idea of home, steadier now than any decor whim or daydream. Steadier than my own mutable ways.