It was early Sunday morning before the sun was up when my one year old woke up inconsolable, so I brought him into bed with me, and we fell back asleep faces pressed together into the morning light.
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It’s like the analogy of when a tree falls in the woods, and there’s no one to hear it, except instead of a tree, it’s yoga pants, and instead of the woods, it’s the inside of your house.
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It's a strange thing how much our world seems to have shrunk. We live in bubbles now, not spheres. Getting our social contact, our information, our everything from tiny screens.
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She trusts me and my intentions, and she knows I’m keeping her safe. She also really misses her friends. So do I.
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I'm simply living out my life from the comfort of my own home, surrounded by loved ones. I'm acutely aware of my own privilege in this. But, sometimes, I think the common story is one worth telling. It's a way for us to relate to one another.
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It’s been a quiet month for me, the creative voice that usually drives me has gone quiet, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.
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One big reason that we still aren’t out of boxes is this: while I don’t regret the things that we prioritized finishing before moving in (walls and floors), I do wish that we had paid more attention to storage.
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We’re getting close to finishing up everything that needs to happen and will deal with the rest once we’re in the space full time.
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There is so much we love about it, the Victorian architecture, the insane little details- from the cherub busts in the corners of the molding around the Bay Windows to the clawfoot tub and antique hardware.
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We’ve got some big news. If it seems like there’s been a lot of it lately, it’s because it’s been a busy couple of months.
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