I never really celebrated the fact that I had my own place. It was just another thing that got checked off the list and not to be thought about again. This lack of appreciation might have something to do with the fact that I never treated my place as my home. There's a piece of me that wants to pack things up and move to somewhere new. To restart, or at least have the freedom to do so. So, I've always kept my place pretty bland. No photos or decor. A minimal amount of plants, only the ones that can handle my neglect. Regardless of how much I enjoyed cooking, I never invested in better equipment or a nice set of dinnerware. I didn't want to get attached. I might be sleeping here, but I wasn't living here.
This year was supposed to be my busiest travel year, with trips planned to many new places. My place wasn't going to be lived in all too much. Then Big Rona came to town, and we all had to face lockdowns, and I had to face my place every single day. This year ended up being the only one that has forced me to turn this place into a bit of a home. There are still parts of me that want to fight it. But then, after all the internal struggles with making decisions, I felt comfortable making my living space more enjoyable. I am displaying mementos instead of storing them in my parent's basement. I've even put a few frames up and allowed more plants into my life. There are moments where each little marker of making this place a home feels like a betrayal to a part of myself. Yet, there is something that feels right and comforting.
Can we have a home and a sense of wonder? A foundation and a sense of freedom? For now, I celebrate the subtle growth I see in my plants and rest in a bed that it'll attempt to make every morning. At the end of the day, home is a feeling, and it's okay to make this room of mine feel more like it.