Over
the last few months, I’ve found myself drawn to some social media accounts (and
YouTube videos) from homemakers who post dreamy little sections of their lives.
They serve lattes with art and sourdough loaves with designs etched in the
crust. Their coffee tables have candles and fresh flowers. Their beds are not
just made, but they are art projects of folded blankets and fluffed
pillows. Their patios are filled with bloom-laden potted plants and strings of
fairy lights. Their kitchens are museums of matching jars and dishes, without a
store-bought bag or box in sight.
It’s
romantic.
It’s romanticized.
And it
doesn’t feel realistic to a lot of people (at least if you can believe what you
read in the comments). Kids and pets and busy lives mean all this curated perfection
can’t be real. Can’t be a thing. Can’t be daily.
I’ve
unofficially explored this theory over the summer, and I’ve concluded that the
romanticized life is far more possible than most give it credit for, but the
realistic life is beautiful in its own way. We have to learn to love them both.
Ryan
and I have been working so hard on our house over the summer. We’ve cleaned out
closets and drawers and cabinets. We’ve looked at everything hiding inside and
determined whether or not it’s necessary and needs to stay. We’ve donated the
things that don’t add to the flow and aesthetic of our home, and we’ve kept our
eyes open at thrift stores and garage sales for the little finishing touches
that do fit here.
We’ve increased
our usage of cloth napkins and soft lights. We’ve maximized the presence of
fresh flowers and garden produce. We’ve folded blankets and fluffed pillows. And
you know what we’ve learned? These little touches really do lend themselves to
a quiet, beautiful life. The kind of life that encourages us to stop for a
minute and sit on the porch, go for a bike ride down a tree-lined trail, and drink
fresh coffee from a pottery mug. We’ve turned off the TV and picked up books.
That
different kind of life isn’t impossible…it’s just a choice. And it’s a choice
we’ve been making more and more this year.
But to
get to the pretty, there must be a mess. The other day, we bumped into each
other navigating a messy, full kitchen. We were in the throes of cooking
multiple things at once in a tiny room, and it wasn’t romantic or romanticized.
It was just a mess. But at the end of the mess, we cleaned it up and put away
all the things in their pretty homes, and it was, once again, lovely.
Cleaning
out closets and cabinets meant piles and boxes while we sorted. One night I
found sweet Lexi curled up in her bed, which had landed smack in the middle of
piles of tubs. She was out in the middle of the mess, but by the end of the
night, all the mess had found a home, and her bed was in its place once again.
Real
life means messes happen. They have to. But if we walk into the mess and give
it some structure, that sweet, romanticized life can be real again. I don’t
think it’s out of reach. It’s just cleaned up. I’ve kind of fallen in love with
it.
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