 I've
been pretty nomadic my whole adult life, but these days I can
barely stand to leave my apartment, and it isn't that my
apartment is exactly a luxury, multi-room home. In fact, I'd be
happy if it had a real kitchen, or a bedroom.
But it's home. I've only been in this apartment for about six
months, and I bought a bunch of used furniture to furnish it, so
it isn't even as if the place is stuffed with my favorite old
furnishings.
Plus, my home is in New York City, a fact that until a couple of
months ago would have only increased its appeal. I could flee
the city, even for a weekend, but I'm reluctant to go: there is
a tremendous comfort in sitting here in my own place, with my
books on the shelves and the white roses I bought last week
opening up in the sun.
It's the comfort of my own style, I realize. Even though the
furnishings aren't things I've owned for long, and many are
flea-market cast-offs, they are the things I like, the things I
want to look at: an old wooden desk chair that makes up in
aesthetics what it lacks in comfort; a 1940s rose-printed
tablecloth; a wooden dictionary stand.
And of course, there are the few things I brought with me when I
moved here, the old Mexican blanket, my grandmother's
celery-green lamp, my Oxford English Dictionary.
And so maybe the comfort that I find in my home these days comes
from the familiarity of my own taste, from being surrounded by
the things that reflect back to me who I am. In these days of
such uncertainty, when we don't know what is what, all we can
keep coming back to is who we are, and that's best manifested in
the things of our world, the things with which we surround
ourselves.
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