In a small apartment, deliberate decorating is a vital joy.
The chart reader from Portsmouth, a bigger-than-life chunk of my childhood book adventures and even more magical as a living, breathing town. The pin commemorating that time the car broke down in the middle of New York CIty after a two day drive from Georgia.
The mug that brought months of solace in a terrible job. The mug that a dear college roommate created with her own hands. A card collection filled with color stories from our travels.
The drum from Uzbekistan, brought back in a suitcase, intact and fascinating. The concrete pot I carried twelve blocks from the little shop two neighborhoods over.
Decorating with what I already have has always been my favorite. Why fill this intimate space with items that don't call to me? That will be forgotten tomorrow? That don't have a story to tell?