It's been five months since Jonathan and I closed on our home. That day my hand shook as I signed my name, what seemed like a thousand times. My head was spinning with a dizzying cocktail of excitement and terror. I was becoming a homeowner, and "home" is such an elusive term. I had always imagined a life on the road, unbound and free to drop anchor wherever, whenever. Obviously, my life has taken a turn quite contrary to gypsydom, and I have put my Southern money where my mouth is.
This house became my home when I cut the first Magnolia bloom off of our tree out back. I dropped it in a jar with water, and it's sweet lingering breath perfumed the air of my living room for a week. That's all she wrote; I fell in love and haven't looked back.
In a way, this house has saved me. My day to day is numbingly boring. See, I work an 8-5 that pertains to me as an individual in no way. Just as I entered what I call a quarter-life crisis (trust me, it's a thing), we moved into 403 Darlington, and I begun to find myself in the touch I can bring to these walls, this floor, this air. This house of ours is tiny and old, but she's all ours and we're proud to call her home.
Above are two of my current favorite spots. On the left is the hallway in it's current state. We painted the walls white, laid a threadbare Turkish rug, and hung a thrifted American flag above the stool that Jonathan's godfather made just for him. To the right is the dining room, with a fresh coat of saturated emerald paint (my favorite color). I have yet to put anything on those walls because they are too enchanting to cover up just yet.
I'll be sharing my home and it's daily evolution here on milk moon. It's gonna be great.