And this is where a house becomes a home, I suppose. The time of year when the clock sets back an hour and the skies darken. The time of year that as we would believe remained saved from pain: on occasion only a family’s dysfunction coming to boil over stuffed turkeys and buttered cornbread.
The season of multi-layered neon lights and homemade wreaths and lists too long and joy. Oh joy. Joy as resistance in the face of its all, an old friend of a phrase. The season of gathering below it all, and for many, in the dark. And in this season in particular, as did winter, spring, and summer, I am taught that the walls in my home remain fastened to my narrow ankles. Tied into my soul. A dignified reminder that walls can symbolize so much more.
The long table remains there as the clock shifts, as cold cereal turns over into hot coffee. As little meals transform into a copious spread for our extension, and as we continue to slowly transform along with this space. A little chair there. A hanging light there. A patch of paint that way. These are the moments when a table for gathering and some days, left sitting quiet and desolate with potential, brings the meaning of home right to me.
(Mid-Century expandable table c/o of West Elm)