1. image of a potted pile peperomioides sourced from gardenista
2. part of the new collection from ouur, the community of designers behind Kinfolk magazine: linen apron. click here.
I've been thinking about my idea of home, and whether it was something tangible or a state of being, or both. There has been a lot of movement towards the art of slow-living, of authenticity found within our vulnerabilities and the simple acts of coming together for connection. I've been diving headfirst into finding what this idea of cultivating a warm home meant for me. Almost certain that it's parallel to my backbone.
It's mid Autumn here and the small arc in the road that takes you to my doorstep is always filled with small children playing make-believe or hide and seek. I mostly sit on our balcony where we leave left-over seeds from our bread for the birds that live in amongst the trees that line our narrow street.
If not reading, I find myself thinking and picking up small lessons. One: from a mother who will still smile despite feeling otherwise sometimes, two: from a father with a weather-worn attic door that opens with more light that I can personally hold, and three, mostly: my grandmother.When we visit my lola (grandmother) in her ground level apartment, there is a familiarity in how we move within the space, beginning with the warmest embrace, to the kitchen dining table where glasses of apple or orange juice lay in wait for us. I ask her about the neighbourhood cat and whether he's been hiding in her garden patch again, she in turn asks a series of questions, whether i've been eating enough, whether this love I feel is enough to marry, when she will have a great-grandchild. The same things each time, my answers haven't changed just yet though: "I think so" / "I hope so" / "I'm very sorry".
Her windows are lined with porcelain animals, there's a faded green frog, a group of deer, a rabbit with a chipped ear and a small cat, lined and ready, covered by the lace curtain which is the same material on the coffee table. Underneath are photographs and albums mostly, a few music books and old letters. I spy one sipping on my juice, and it's my parents on their wedding day; so uncertain, but in love. There's another of my lola with my grandpa on a ferry to Manly. These are memories held together by brown string, important moments noted by faded bookmarks. This, to her is a recollection of home. Always moving, to age gracefully with time.
What does home mean for you?
It's mid Autumn here and the small arc in the road that takes you to my doorstep is always filled with small children playing make-believe or hide and seek. I mostly sit on our balcony where we leave left-over seeds from our bread for the birds that live in amongst the trees that line our narrow street.
If not reading, I find myself thinking and picking up small lessons. One: from a mother who will still smile despite feeling otherwise sometimes, two: from a father with a weather-worn attic door that opens with more light that I can personally hold, and three, mostly: my grandmother.When we visit my lola (grandmother) in her ground level apartment, there is a familiarity in how we move within the space, beginning with the warmest embrace, to the kitchen dining table where glasses of apple or orange juice lay in wait for us. I ask her about the neighbourhood cat and whether he's been hiding in her garden patch again, she in turn asks a series of questions, whether i've been eating enough, whether this love I feel is enough to marry, when she will have a great-grandchild. The same things each time, my answers haven't changed just yet though: "I think so" / "I hope so" / "I'm very sorry".
Her windows are lined with porcelain animals, there's a faded green frog, a group of deer, a rabbit with a chipped ear and a small cat, lined and ready, covered by the lace curtain which is the same material on the coffee table. Underneath are photographs and albums mostly, a few music books and old letters. I spy one sipping on my juice, and it's my parents on their wedding day; so uncertain, but in love. There's another of my lola with my grandpa on a ferry to Manly. These are memories held together by brown string, important moments noted by faded bookmarks. This, to her is a recollection of home. Always moving, to age gracefully with time.
What does home mean for you?
