A recent epiphany had me loving what I have made mine. Cooped up in my old bedroom, I would pine for magazine cover-worthy houses — dog and enviable lifestyle included. Things happen fast in my head, my reality can't catch up with my desires. What I fail to see is that slowly I accumulate the pretty little things I dream of.
My fantasies, upon re-examination, aren't perfect either. Even in that imagined space, something is missing or the elements don't add up. This chrome electric fan is glorious, but it clashes with the wooden shelf.
These thoughts flood my head after reading this Rebecca Watts poem.
The StudioAnd immediately I am reminded of this Kay Ryan poem, which I featured earlier in this blog. It's worth reposting here as seeing the two poems side-by-side makes me smile; I can relate to both in equal measure.
little lady little man
little pot little pan
little table little chair
little cupboard little stair
little plant little leaves
little rooftop little eaves
little cake little pie
little naptime lullaby
little blanket little book
little corner little nook
little cushion little frame
little thing without a name
little statue little bell
little bauble little shell
little lamp little pin
little box to put it in
little apron little jug
little window little rug
little postcard little rock
little candle little clock
little broom little door
little greedy wanting more
—Rebecca Watts
That Will to DivestAm I living in my dream house now? Which is to ask, Am I now living the life that I want? Can we ever answer yes? Maybe in brief moments.
Action creates
a taste for itself.
Meaning: once
you've swept
the shelves
of spoons
and plates
you kept
for guests,
it gets harder
not to also
simplify the larder,
not to dismiss
rooms, not to
divest yourself
of all the chairs
but one, not
to test what
singleness can bear,
once you've begun.
—Kay Ryan
