turning a house into a home

What’s your story?

I live in New York City. I love the energy, the endless array of unique personalities, the vibe of a city that never sleeps. But I also love the moment I walk in my front door. Suddenly everything is calm. Quiet and (dare I say it?) serene.

For me, our home is our safe place. It is where we can be ourselves. We can wander around in our oldest frayed pajamas or whirl in our kitchen in our favorite gown. It’s the place of warm and fuzzy.

And that is why I believe everything in your home should have its own special story. I don’t mean that each chair was purchased in a moment of brilliant inspiration — the story may be a story that invokes memories of the three times the company delivered the wrong chair. The point is that I remember why and how I acquired each piece of furniture, each frame and mirror. In some fashion, my home is a tribute to the memories of my life.

I know there are many people who look through design magazines and decide “I want that.” As in “I want that room, exactly as I see it here on this glossy page.” And if the room they create makes them feel at home, I fully support that. If the room makes them happy solely because it will impress business associates, I am ok with that too — but I am sad for the person who is sick and must look around and see none of their life looking back.

Sometimes your house is a home despite you.

I moved across the country 9 years ago and happily purchased a lovely cream couch. Almost immediately after it arrived, I realized I had made a mistake. The couch was beautiful but I carefully avoided it lest I mar that lovely cream with dirty feet or, god forbid, red wine. I regretted the purchase but I wasn’t willing to get rid of it because I couldn’t stomach the sheer waste of it.

Then my mother visited. Like me, she enjoys reading or watching TV from the coziness of the couch. So there she was, red wine in hand, perusing the New York Times, its pages thrown haphazardly on the couch and the floor.

So I stopped worrying about dirtying the couch and started enjoying it. And now the couch has a story. It’s the story about how a parent sometimes reminds you what matters without a single word.