?Without a boyfriend or a roommate, I felt myself turning inward, into myself, into my home? If I let my eyes lose focus, the collection of green squares that have accumulated on the wall between my kitchen and my living room looks like Midwestern farmland from above. A warm breeze might blow between them, stirring long grasses in a chorus of soft, scratchy sounds. But the reality is much less soothing. I cannot for the life of me pick a paint color, and it?s starting to drive me insane.
I?ve come to say I?m nesting, because the process of curating and cultivating the spaces that make up my home feels imminently significant.
Two years ago I bought my first house, in Portland, Oregon. It?s your basic starter home; one level, 1,000 square feet, 100 years old, with thick layers of peeling paint used to cover up the many lives that have passed through. My friend rented out the second bedroom, and my dog would crawl through our connected closets to visit us both, climbing over little hills of shoes we shared. At night we gossiped over the glow of HBO, like wiser versions of our college selves. This year, I broke up with my boyfriend the day before my 31st birthday. Around the same time, my roommate decided to get her own space. Both situations had been good, but not good enough to last forever. And as I stepped onto solid 30-something ground, I craved the space to define my life?to make it the best it could be?without the clutter of too much company or commitment. Without...