29 November 2017

bedspace

portra 400 - november 2017 - glendroa
portra 400 - november 2017 - glendora


There's a comforting softness in a wrinkled white duvet cover in the mid-minutes of four PM, where light that peaks in through half open windows comes paired with a wavering branch hitting shadows on the far wall which fit together like rosemary and a deep, slow inhale – and all I can think of is how perfect this silence is, and how tempting it is to fill it with sound, with breath, with an appreciation of what my fingers can create if I put some effort in. 
I find myself appreciating moments of stillness more now that my days are filled with laundry list of tasks or workouts followed by meal prep. When was the last time I laid on the grass? When did I last leave my phone home for a day and just be. I think of high school days when I'd wake up with the sun and search my twin bed around me for the book I fell asleep reading the night before, continuing from where I left off. I'd read until my stomach growled and the urge to brush my teeth overtook my desire to find out what happens next.  
I fengshuied a lot with my bedspace while at the old house. Technically, there were only two corners where my bed could properly fit, but once or twice my bed blocked the entry way to the closet because I felt like having a headboard that rested under a window and sunlight on fresh pages. One Christmas break was spent reading the whole series of Harry Potter on a brown pleather lovecouch in my closet, the ceiling slanted from the roof above but I didn't mind, I was and still am so short. My mom called me a hermit. I'd come downstairs at 2 pm for tea or curry and she'd comment, "Sarah's finally out of her hole!" But I reveled in it. I'd microwave a bowl of dad's chicken curry while holding my arms, now exposed to the element that is an AC'd house with no blanket in sight. I'd pivot foot to foot, warming the sole of one against the side of my calve, flamingo style, protecting it momentarily from a cold wooden floor. As the microwave whirred and the chicken popped, I'd put a tortilla on the fire of a stove, flipping with bare fingers until puffs formed. With a beep and a turn of the knob, I placed the tortilla on the rim of the bowl and and retreat back upstairs, away from the noise of a poker tournament on tv, where the floors don't need swifting and I could warm my soul up while the down-comforter warms my feet. 
Last month, I moved to Hollywood, where my room is upstairs and my bed has finally found it's home under a window after three failed fengshui attempts. I get a sneak peak of light in the morning which hits my face in the most lovely way. My bed is filled with pillows that sneak their way into the abyss that is bed-meets-wall. On a day like today, where I did not have work, I turned off my alarms and slept until my body woke me up. I'm finding a rhythm in my being that, in recent months, has been forced with the axe of willpower.