Sharinghula

As an experiment, I write questions for myself and tuck them into vases and pitchers, under candlesticks, and in books: What does my home want? What kind of person is my home inviting me to be? What concrete steps might take me there? What does my sofa want to wear? What messages do the walls want to pass along? If I could do one thing different this year, what would it be?
I will allow myself to live into the answers, educated by a rural existence close to nature, where weathered things mingle with new. Wear and tear is part of the charm. My windows don’t want to dress up, for instance. My fireside chair requests contours that hug and feel plush with wear of soft-on-the-skin upholstery. My walls ask for a dash of the theatrical: a colorful hat on the antler rack, a bright painting hung upside down.
My house is filling itself with symbols of where it wants to go—clutter-free, for one thing. It does not want to be overly attached to the past. That would imply fearing the future won’t bring anything as meaningful as what has gone before. Sentiment is often just a different kind of materialism that only seems less inane. My home will always be a work in progress.
Some things never change, of course, but very few. Among these, empty space in a room is universally essential. White space, as it is called in graphic design, leaves a place for personal interpretation and for emotional response to be processed. Along with light, empty space can enhance the sacred feel of an interior more efficiently than