scribblechic

Visiting an old friend’s new home yesterday I heard the rushed tread of children’s feet carving a path between floors and giggles bubbling beneath bedroom doors. The snap of latches as young explorers invaded a new territory and the amused groans of sleepy corners settling into a response.

Pristine walls, newly painted and uninterrupted by adornment, reflected ribbons of daylight through windows bare of tapestry; washing old rooms in new colors. Underfoot, patchwork rugs punctuated the length of warm wooden floors, the contrast of textures shaping each room’s personality and inviting expectations of holiday gatherings and lazy weekend mornings to come.

Weighted furniture and a sprinkling of old keepsakes anchor memories against the canvas of something new while cardboard boxes stand sentry, a stubborn reminder of the work of making a home. It is a happy contradiction the comforts of resting places and the riddle of sorting possessions, conjuring an expectation of casual convenience with deceptively well choreographed placement.

Like the frame of the house stretched protectively beneath its inhabitants, settling a home is a labor of love; a gentle yielding to accommodate change. A threshold for possibility.

Tagged: Musings