Getting settled

It's exactly like it sounds. It's slow, it's painful, and it's totally nothing like what you planned. Instead of sitting right now at a desk, I'm sitting at a side table on a floor pillow. Instead of a bed with a headboard and box spring, I'm sleeping on a mattress on a floor. And I love it.

My room is small, in every sense of the word. It is lacking both in square footage and ceiling height. I say it's "me-sized." It's nothing more than I need and everything I wanted all in one. My night table is here with my small pewter lamp, my cedar chest is filled with sheets, extra comforters, and extra blankets for when it finally gets cold enough to need them. My grandmother's dresser is filled with clothes that I use everyday, my clothes for work lie in a shared closet in the room just down the hall, and my long dresses and things lie in another room entirely. My curtains let in tons of natural light yet still let me sleep in, and on the bed is a wonderful quilt with lots of pillows - perfect for late nights reading. It's smaller by far than any other room I've ever had, my books are spread about the house because there isn't the space for them, my closet is filled with narrow shelves of awkward heights, and I enjoy every minute. I read in a book somewhere in which a bedroom was described "as though the character's personality had exploded onto the walls." I don't think we're quite there yet. I'll need to put up a poster or painting or two before that's the case, but I do think that the room is an accurate reflection if who I am right now, and not who I sometimes think I should be. For the first time in a while, this room truly feels like home.