Home is where I sit in the light, early morning on a Saturday before the rest of the world decides to wake and disturb. I gaze out the window and watch as the trees sway gradually, back and forth – almost convincing of a rural life until the oversized crane comes into focus. I hear the birds doing their thing through my window and happy shouts from a soccer match.
It’s comfy: I rug up in yeti-like layers, ugg boots on, blanket at the ready. My version of hygge. I find my happy place: hands wrapped around a mug of fresh coffee, reading, writing, learning and engaging with the world from the comfort of my prized chair.
And, when night falls, the lamps come on, the candles are lit, oozing the warmth and glow that makes a long day worth it. Dinner on the floor, picnic-style with wine in hand, as an addictive brain is fed with the latest Netflix obsession. To top it all off, a book in bed, warming the sheets before slumber hits.
That’s home to me: an imperfect, yet perfectly comfortable space. It’s the place where the body lets out a loud sigh at the end of a working day because now I can be free, trackies and all.
(Image via here)