There are certain times of year when I become absolutely convinced the furniture is wrong.
Not ugly. Not broken. Not even particularly inconvenient.
Just...wrong.
Our sofa that has lived happily in the same corner for eight months suddenly NEEDS to move. A table belongs somewhere else. These two lamps need to trade spaces. And if you happen to live with me, congratulations, you have just been involuntarily enrolled in a full-house furniture relocation project.
I used to think this was just one of my quirks.
Now I think I might be rearranging things on the outside when I can feel something rearranging on the inside.
And lately, things have been rearranging.
We crossed the autumn equinox last week, that tiny moment when daylight and darkness are almost perfectly balanced before we begin the long slide toward more dark than light.
Libra season arrived right along with the equinox, which, as a Libra myself, feels particularly appropriate.
One of the things I love about Libras, ahem, if I do say so myself, is our relationship with beauty. We look for it everywhere. We want things to feel beautiful, not just look beautiful. Our homes. Our relationships. Our work. Our lives.
Which probably explains why I am forever moving furniture.
However, I've spent a lot of my life feeling slightly embarrassed, and defensive, about how much this matters to me.
Because wanting something to look good can sound frivolous.
Or expensive, as my husband likes to think.
Who cares what your office looks like? You can work at any desk.
Who cares what your website looks like? It works.
Who cares if your newsletter template feels stale? People are there for the words.
But sometimes a website doesn't feel like you anymore, so every time you open it, you feel a tiny bit disconnected from the work you're putting into the world.
Sometimes you're sitting in an office cubicle eight hours a day under fluorescent lights thinking, I fucking hate it here, and a lamp, a plant and a picture of your dog would make it feel 20 percent less soul-sucking.
Sometimes your at-home workspace is technically functional but it's also where the laundry gets folded, the Amazon boxes collect and everyone drops the shit they don't know what to do with.
Sometimes the newsletter you've sent for two years suddenly needs a different font (have you noticed? 😉) or a new header or for you to move the goddamn sections around.
And sometimes you know exactly what would make something feel better, but you don't have the money for it.
Or the time.
Or the energy.
So you do what you can.
You move the desk.
You steal a lamp from another room.
You change the font.
You clean off the counter.
You put the chair by the window.
You rearrange.
Because it's not shallow to want the places where we spend our lives to feel good to us.
Beauty affects how I feel.
And how I feel affects how I show up.
And then this weekend, I watched Madeline come down the stairs in her homecoming dress.
When we were looking at this house over a year ago, she came down the stairs and said, “Mom, can't you just see me getting pictures on this staircase for homecoming?”
She had manifested her own little main-character moment before we'd even lived here long enough for it to feel completely like ours.
And then there she was.
I took the picture and knew immediately that she had gotten her moment.
I understand that feeling.
I wake up every morning still grateful for this house. This sanctuary we somehow find ourselves in. I notice the light coming through the windows. I notice the views. I notice the ridiculous ceilings and beautiful craftsmanship. I don't think the awe has worn off yet, and I hope it never does.
Maybe that's the other side of always looking for beauty.
Yes, I will move the furniture seventeen times trying to find it.
But when I find it?
I know how to sit in it.
I know how to appreciate it.
I know how to say, this is beautiful and I am here.
And maybe that's what Madeline was doing on the staircase.
She had imagined something beautiful for herself, and when the moment came, she didn't miss it.
She stood right in the middle of it and I took the picture.
And maybe that's the distinction I've been trying to understand lately.
There is rearranging because something doesn't feel right.
And then there is rearranging because we've gotten so used to searching for what's next that we've forgotten how to recognize when something already does.
Maybe not everything needs to be moved.
Maybe sometimes we need to stop moving the furniture long enough to realize:
Oh.
I actually really like this room.
