October has murdered September, and autumn is here. And so am I. And I’m revamping Light After Rain.
I disappeared for a long time without an explanation, and I wish I could say I was simply setting up a healthy boundary. I was busy—I moved out of my parents’ house, and I started my first big-girl job in my dream industry. You would think these huge steps forward made for an incredible summer.
But the truth is, summer sucks the marrow out of my bones. And so did college.
After graduating in May, when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t know who I was seeing, and I didn’t like her. As a result, the weeks following graduation felt hollow. The dullness in my spirit gave way to despair.
What saved me was many little miracles. The first was an email from my best friend, three days before graduation. “I love you,” she had written, above an attachment of a document she’d authored. I don’t remember the specifics of the essay, but I remember the message:
Delight in everything.
“All right, Jessi,” I remember thinking. “I’ll try.”
Place as Integral to Personhood
Jessi tells me often, as she did in her email, that moving away from your childhood home is a pivotal step toward positive change. She means this in the context of moving out of your home state. But I’ve found it’s true in the context of moving away from your street.
Human beings are place-oriented creatures. We attach everything to places—memories, events, and even people. This natural tendency is why moving away from home is often very difficult. It’s why we have a notion of “home” in the first place. It’s why, when our childhood homes are good and beautiful, we feel deeply attached to the people with whom we grew up.
But that’s just it—humans grow up. And when people develop properly, they not only grow up, but they also grow into themselves. Growing into one’s own merits not only a mental and emotional change, but a physical one.
What I’m saying is, once you’re able, move out. Take charge of your life and your individuality. If you’ve lost yourself, give yourself room—literal room—to be your own.
I no longer live with my parents. I moved into a house with a friend, and we set to work making it our own.
My anthologies found new shelves to inhabit. I had my own coffee table on which to display my pretentious copies of the New Yorker and Poets & Writers. My coffeepot is a reptilian green, but it’s mine, and that’s wonderful. I have a cheeseboard shaped like a coffin and a checkered shower curtain.
My dad painted the bathroom a brilliant teal, and my roommate painted one bedroom white. Morning light makes my house shine.
Delighting in everything means being grateful for the space I have and the person I am becoming. It means embracing the difficulty, taking a leap of faith, and moving out. The blessing is almost always in the challenge.
Homemaker, make your home (spooky).
Listen, you needn’t be married nor a stay-at-home mom to be a homemaker. All humans are place people. So unmarried homemakers are just as equipped to create a nurturing space.
One project I’ve set out to accomplish is to eliminate bland decor from my house. Hobby Lobby minimalism is a destroyer of creativity. Human beings need weird art in their homes.
Thus, my home is turning into a haunted one—by choice. I’ve draped black cheesecloth over the fireplace and dining table. Ghosts, cauldrons, and taper candles cover all surfaces. The bar displays witch-themed decor, and a smattering of tealight candles gives the home a ghoulish glow in the evenings. One candle flickers beneath a skeleton I’ve called Elbows, who guards the mantel.
Recently my little cousin came over to make mulled cider and commented, “Hmm. Needs more skulls.” And, “If this was my home, I’d keep these decorations up all year.”
She is absolutely right. On both points. More skulls are on the shelves now, and they will be displayed through Christmas.
If you have never dressed your home in spooky attire, you should begin. Historically, in some cultures people would set up figures of Death in their homes and decorate churches with skulls—all to remind them of their own mortality.
We have a limited number of autumns. So by all means, make your home Gothic and strange. Let your space remind you to live your life.
Life won’t be perfect; it might be lonely sometimes or heavy from the weight of one million sad moments. But it can still be good.
Once your space is yours, open it up.
Humans were created for fellowship and service. Once you’ve established your home, then shift your focus outward. Love the people in your life, and invite them into your space.
In late summer I began to do things for others. Now I host regular dinners and movie nights. I assemble care packages for sick friends, especially those who are homesick. This November I’m doing a friend’s bridal makeup, so I’ve had her over for dinner, dessert, and makeup practice.
What I mean is, if others need—even temporarily—a nurturing environment, and it is in your power to provide one, then provide one. Do everything you can to make your home a safe and care-filled place. Even (and especially) for yourself.
Every Saturday I wake early, make a generous pot of coffee for two, and cook breakfast for my roommate. I put on a breakfast playlist that some friends helped me curate. If I’m feeling cheeky, I sing along. (There is no morning that Bee Gees hits cannot make better.)
After breakfast, I clean for most of the day—floors, kitchen, two bathrooms. I have always enjoyed cleaning, but cleaning a home that’s mine is even more fulfilling. The messes mean the home is lived in. And once cleaned, a home is primed for making even more memories.
If I’m done cleaning early enough, I can think up a poem or two, or take a nap. Sometimes, if I’m feeling shameless, I make affogatos in martini glasses at nine p.m. and watch a sitcom with my roommate.
Growing up, I never loved Saturdays. Grown up, I do.
I’ve thrown myself into the role of homemaker with renewed vigor. My home is a central, grounding place where I take care of myself and others.
Weeks ago I woke up, looked in the mirror, and thought for the first time in months, “I like what I see.” The woman I saw was confident and beautiful. I love her. I love her home. And I (finally) love her life.
Finding delight in everything was never about forcing my situation to change. It was about loving where I was.
New feature: YOU pick the movie!
Readers of Light After Rain can now vote for the film I should watch next! From now on, each film review will include a poll with movie options, and I’ll watch and review the winning film.
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