Worthy of Pride
I’ve been arranging and rearranging the furniture in my room over the past couple of months in an attempt to bring some fresh perspective to the space. When I left for college, my room became the guest room, and when I moved back in I mostly just filled in the empty spaces with knick knacks and things that I’d stashed along the way. Among other things, my bed got an upgrade and my small and secure twin became a queen, which feels slightly too big and still practically impossible to dress in fresh linens. It’s funny how much more uncomfortable empty space can be. Shoes that are too small pinch your toes; shoes that are too big are unwearable. Same goes for my college girl bed; sometimes the empty space is lonely.
All that to say, decorating this space has been an exercise in actively acknowledging my feelings about the small things. Do I like this chair here or am I settling because I don’t know where else to put it? Do I like this frame or does the empty space on the wall just make me feel disorganized? The choices are small ones and probably insignificant, but I’m attempting to make decisions to enhance a space that will house creative moments, late night study sessions and tender conversations. In six months this probably won’t matter, but it matters right now, and right now I feel overwhelmed by this desire to make this room perfect.
I have historically harbored the belief that I am only worthy of pride if things are perfectly in order, maintained meticulously. But after many years of having people pick me up off the floor in tears and hold me tightly, it is far more endearing for me to stumble and fall and then reach out for help when I need it. I should be familiar with this concept because I’ve unknowingly tried to capture that exact sentiment in my room. The thrifted pieces of decor with chipped edges and faded color bring my room to life. Even though it feels foreign, I’m drawn to the character in imperfection.
I’m just one girl, sometimes afraid that if I shut my eyes too tight I might just disappear into the surrounding narratives that are so threaded with displays of perfection. But the beauty of it is that I can still revel in absolutely precious moments, even when they are adorned with faded colors and chipped edges, and lean into the special moments, especially when they are dressed in imperfection. The post-fight words softly interspersed with ragged breath-catching like an old motor struggling to idle. The desperate last moments of hanging on when the coming parting is rushing in like water through breached below-deck windows. The stillness of laying skin to skin when the sun is peeking through the blinds and the whispers of responsibilities and weighty grievances are growing louder by the moment.
The paintings on my wall will always seem crooked. No amount of tilting back and forth and back and forth ever seems to straighten them. The fake plants in my room will always tease ‘irresponsible’ and ‘uncommitted,’ despite my devoted efforts to embellish them with vintage pots in close proximity to the rays of sun that garnish the room, which they neither need nor desire. And despite the inordinate amount of pillows, my college girl bed is still too big and too lonely.
But when the evening rolls around and the sun sets the room ablaze with warm golden streaks, it matters less. I’ll probably keep straightening and rearranging, but it’s comforting to know that each evening will bring those few precious moments, when things feel whole and the imperfections fade into the grainy texture of it all. Or maybe, contribute to it.
