Home is where the heart is.

I realised something recently.  I am totally, completely and utterly over the dark head space I’ve been pretending to not be in for the last 7 years.  Although I haven’t exactly been depressed to the degree of lying in bed and crying all the time, I’ve kind of avoided a lot of things other people do because they have one life and they make the most of it.  I’ve kind of always been in this state of putting things off, like ‘oh, whatever, I’ll get my debt sorted out next year’ or, ‘Meh – who cares that my bedroom consists of one bed, a dressing table and a bunch of packed away nick-nacks I couldn’t be bothered to put up?’.

It seems that I’ve changed.  In fact, I’ve metamorphosed into some semblance of a domesticated homebody.  Suddenly, my surroundings matter.  The fact that the picture on the wall is a bit lopsided matters. Not having the spare bedroom’s curtains up matters.  Things that I would turn a blind eye to in the past suddenly crawl up my ass and eat their way up my insides until I do something about it and make nice and pretty.

I’ve hated flowers for years and years (since Kiera died, actually) to the point that I would get offended if anyone ever bought me flowers.  To me, they were symbols of death, apologies, pity and shame.  Negative gestures passed off as a good intention.  Well, no more.  Around my birthday last year, I suddenly woke up to the beauty of flowers, the fragrance they let off, the colours they show us, the intricate details that go into each and ever flower petal, the way they make me smile the minute I walk into Woolworths and pore over all the new additions to the flower section and read carefully how each one should be watered and when.  Flowers are goddamned beautiful, blog.  How could I never notice?

So it goes without saying that in compensation for all the years I’ve hated flowers, I suddenly need to surround myself with them.  Jon teased me the other day saying that I can never do something half-mast.  I used to hate the things with a fierce dispassion but now I have to go overboard and in excess with my latest need to be one with the flowers.  I now have two and half gorgeous orchids; white, purple and yellow.  I also have the most precious little pink thing outside on the veranda in a pot on the patio table which replaced the last lot that went suicidal by water drowning.  Every time I’m in a shop that sells seedlings I’m tempted to empty their supply into my shopping trolley.  I have the sudden desire to plant herbs, seeds, vegetable pips, pot plants – anything.  If you stood still for long enough next to me, I’d probably attempt to plant you if you looked the other way.

The sad and shameful fact that my fingers are most certainly not what the tree huggers call ‘green’ is of no consequence. Practice makes perfect, right?  And practicing I am.  It doesn’t matter that my first orchid, Yellow, died a very slow and painful death by drowning.  It doesn’t matter that I’ve thrown out wrinkly, wilted, brown and very sad looking purple daisies.

What matters is that I’ve done enough reading up about the bloody things to research how to bring an orchid back to life.  What matters is that I keep trying.  What matters is that I feel like I’ve finally woken up from a very dark, lonely space where there was only me and my obsession with not wanting to admit that I am a grown ass woman, I should be asking you to hear me roar while I ooh and ahh over flowers, cook books and general pretty things that other women like.  And baking things and making things with like, beads and shit.   For so long I’ve avoided these things that leave an imprint on the world, I’ve avoided participating.  I didn’t want to – I was quite happy in my little empty shell of a facade that all was right with the world of Me.  I liked it in my head.  Going out there and changing things, even as small as putting up photos or hanging curtains meant too much participation in this life.  Participation was for lame people who had OCD.  Like Cath and my mom and Britt, who used to do decoupage and sew things.

But now I am participating.  It started when Jon and I moved in together.  Albeit that our house has been a bit of a chaotic bomb shelter until very recently, I’ve suddenly become enthralled with the prospect of paint swabs, fixing up old and dusty lamp shades, refurbishing my dressing room table, decorating with nick-nacks, making things to hang up my jewelery.  Unpacking boxes that I haven’t looked at in years and putting my trinkets all over the place and buying tons more that we don’t need, things that Jon kindly says nothing about and looks the other way, even though it isn’t really his kind of taste or his first, second, third or tenth choice.

Which brings me to the crux of this new-found matter: Jon lets me be.  He questions, sure, he totally puts up a defense if he really does not share my vision of something for the dwelling, but ultimately he has sat back and observed and given me the opportunity to nest, if you will.  He’s made me want to get into this whole domestic thing.  He’s provided me with the most beautiful home I could ever ask for, and he encourages me putting my woman-roaring touch on things.  He’s given me the space and the support to grow (and I don’t just mean sideways at my waist, either, even though that’s happened too) and he’s offered open arms to crawl into when I chicken out and want to hide away sometimes too.

And I don’t thank him often enough for it.

I’ve found my way back, blog.  In every sense of the word, I’ve come home.

12 comments

  1. Marc says:

    Great post Sheena. I think as we get older we realize what’s most important to us and what “counts”
    Looks like you found it 😉

  2. Jen says:

    Great post 🙂 I love moments like this. First time reading your blog and I love it! I’m a baby blogger myself, one day I hope to grow up to be as witty and honest as you.

  3. Bonita says:

    damn!! ..freakin’ awesome post!! I can relate.. It’s terrible to say this, pretend it didn’t come from me: “Domestication is teh ohrrrsum!!” 😛

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