Redecorating

I'm not a decorator although I admire those who have that gift. When my mom saw my very first apartment she took me shopping to try to give it some life, some color. We bought two hanging plants which I never watered, a yellow rug, and a frame to hang my polaroids. An apartment transformed. She has that gift, that gift to make wherever she stays beautiful, even if it wasn't so when she arrived. I, on the other hand, consider myself a minimalist at best. I don't think I would even bother putting anything up if people didn't expect it.  It would be strange to walk into an empty room, it would say too much. I'd live out of a suitcase if I could. I wouldn't unpack these boxes or put one poster on the wall. It would look like no one ever lived there, no one ever took the time to make it into something worth staying for.  

So ask me how it's going, the new place, I'd tell you it's alright. I doubt anything would really change the feeling, whether it be a new rug or a certain room. Part of me wants to just get rid of it all, start from zero. Get rid of everything that reminds me of times when the feeling of home was almost in reach, almost tangible. I could almost describe it to you. But I think you would've felt it, and it just wasn't there. The warmth, the warmth that not even this new duvet could bring. I would get rid of the desk, the bookshelf, the books, the dresses, the shoes, everything. Even the couch that made the trip from Springfield to Vineyard. Because maybe, just maybe, with new furniture, a new look, it would feel different enough. 

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In an optimistic effort to personalize my new room, I bought a dresser from Savers. This dresser, the one without any knobs, with cracks and chips in the wood, the price tag half scratched off. It looks at me, an empty shell, clothes still piled up on my desk. The desk is symbolic of my current lack of motivation, an unwillingness to settle in. Glass half full, it's an opportunity, it could be full someday. 

Today I finally sanded the drawers, walked them down one by two, their corners bouncing up against the white walls. It took two hours to sand off their imperfections, to smooth down their rough surfaces. It felt good.  I still feel a bit hopeless because the next thing to move is this shell of a dresser that looks back at me now while I type. After I sand, I'll have to go to Home Depot and buy paint and a tarp and a brush and it just seems like too much but if I do it, maybe if I do it and it works, it'll mean something. Maybe my room will become just a bit more familiar to me, a space all my own.

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I'd like to think that if I took the time to make it my own, that I would want to stay awhile, that I wouldn't be afraid to stay and make it home. I'd appreciate it, and how it would protect me. I'd take the time to memorize the details, how the walls feel, the curve in the staircase, the bathroom drawers full of hair bows that hide purple dye. How the tiles feel on my feet, hot and cold, depending on the season. Or the backyard, how the grass feels, how it moves, how I move in it. I wouldn't leave it.

I'd like to think that if a place already felt like home, you wouldn't even need any of these things. Not one. But something in me is still trying to unpack the boxes that hold the things I can't seem to throw away. Some small part of me wants to be open to a gallery wall or to finally unbox this cube thingy I bought at Target six months ago. I'd like to try to make something beautiful and mine.