Home Sweetest Home
Wednesday, Mar. 17, 2004 2:09 p.m.
You have 3 hours to get out of the house, or you're not leaving it for the next 24 hours.
This is the message the weather has been telling me. For the past two days, I would wake up at 8 with the sun in my eyes, and it would look like a glorious day, clear blue sky, birds chirping, cool breeze blowing and trees swaying in the breeze, the works. Perfect day for a swim. But this being the school break, I'd take my time making coffee, whipping up breakfast, reading my book (there's always a book to read), listening to the radio or playing my CDs (current favourite is the City of God soundtrack, remixed version Vol. 1). If I'm really psyched up that day, I would be showered and changed by 10. Otherwise I would think about jumping into the shower at 11.
Of course, at 11 or 12, it would pour. And it wouldn't stop till 6 in the evening, or late at night.
Perfect day for staying in, then.
I am in love with my home. You don't know how beautiful it is to be home until you've spent the past ten weeks working 12 hours and spending your evenings finishing off the grading that you didn't complete in school, at your dining table. Pffft.
Now my home is finally what it is supposed to be, a place of rest, relaxation and unwinding. I have time to notice how my orchids have grown, to listen to the rustlings of the blackbird's nest underneath the air-conditioner bracket outside my window, to just admire the quiet and comfort of my home. It thrills me just to look at the things I've bought to make the place look homey. Like the UNICEF African print mugs I bought recently. My Braun coffee maker. The beige IKEA rug and red floor cushions in the living room. The framed print of a Japanese painting (bought at the Met) hanging above the dining table. My denim quilt cover with Moroccan prints. My bedside lamp with the red lampshade. Coasters. Even the ironing board and the clothes rack please me, because I bought them with my own money, for my own house.
Before I moved into this apartment, I had a room. I could do whatever I liked with the room, but the rest of the house belonged to my roommate Sam, because he owned the place. I loved the decor, it was cosy and artsy and retro at the same time, but it wasn't me. Now I have an apartment all to myself - almost, because I have a roommate who hasn't spent a single night here since we moved in for some reason - and I can give it the stamp of my character and taste.
This is the kind of freedom that's a luxury. And up until now, I have been unaware of it, the simplicity of it.
Happiness is having a place you can call your own.
Older entries
Ramadan - 08 October 2006
Where I Have Been - 03 October 2006
Baby Talk - 10 August 2006
6 Weeks of Separation - 16 July 2006
Unacceptable Rudeness - 21 June 2006