For me, the house is separate from the garden, which I always start anew, killing grass and planting what I like, thus immediately making it mine.
Not so with the house, which began as a stranger when we moved in during summer. While the 1959 ranch always was appealing in some ways – slung low, sturdy feeling, good layout and room sizes – it also felt unfamiliar, unbelonging to us, somehow disorienting. I felt it was a good house, but I didn't feel good about it. Moreover, I did not know if and how it would accommodate the countless indoor plants I had hauled from Connecticut to Georgia.
Much of this dissonance I felt after the move came from seeing everything out of place. Furniture, rugs, plants, dishes. They all seemed not to fit, not to be placed in exactly the right spots. I felt like a stranger in a strange space.
Until recently, when we finally – after six long months – completed essential repairs, had walls painted and, most important, got all our belongings placed. Including television sets, this after a long, contentious, disappointing experience with big-promising-little-delivering Comcast, ending with my eventually getting loose from it and hooking up with AT&T U-verse.
Feeling we had made a successful transition, Lyn and I looked around, clinked our glasses, sighed deeply and agreed that it felt like home.
This realization set me off on a round of picture-taking, documenting pieces of our environment – a nook here, a space there, akin to moments or puzzle pieces. Daily, as we walk about, our minds' eyes' see these parts as a whole. A whole home.
Here are some parts, starting with two views of the living room:
|A corner of the dining room.|
|The diner, or breakfast room.|
|The media center, for reading, watching television – and being.|
|My writing room.|