Tell us about your favorite spot in your home. Why is it your favorite spot?
I’ve always loved to be alone with a book or my journal. I wanted a spot in my home to do one of my favorite things: write poems. This cozy corner invites leisurely writing—preferably on the Japanese paper I bought at a local letterpress boutique that writes so smoothly it gives me goosebumps. A typewriter might not be out of place here, set on my Craigslist table. It would be a perfect sidekick for my pink Eames chair scored from the local vintage store.
Is there a particular story about how this spot came to be arranged/decorated the way it is? Are there any particular pieces that have significant history to you or your family?
Since I was a girl, I’ve had a romantic obsession with window seats, built-in bookshelves with desks, enclaves and breakfast nooks. Anything nook-ish that might invite me to tuck in with my imagination was my idea of heaven. So, when this kitchen banquette was nailed and painted into my first house, in a group effort by my father-in-law, a carpenter, and my mother, who gifted us with these beautiful fabrics, my husband and I were quick to provide the finishing touches.
As I tossed my favorite Guatemalan textile over the finished project in what I hoped looked like a casual flourish, I imagined nights of us writing side by side, pausing every so often to bounce ideas back and forth or share whatever emotional spill had taken its toll on our pages. The reality is that the busyness of family life and the exhaustion it brings has left us here, more often than not, thoroughly enjoying simple silence.
Have there been particularly inspiring or moving moments in this corner of your home? Or, is there a particular feeling you get when you are in this space in your house?
The writing I imagined doing in my little corner spills over into the rest of life. I still usually write on my phone, whether I’m in the car, in between errands and kid pick-ups, or in bed. Often, a spontaneous idea occurs, and I write by talking into the phone’s mic, confusing my family or a bystander at Trader Joe’s. (Oh, it’s her poetry. Weirdo.) Later, I am either confused or delighted (often both) by autocorrect’s interpretation of my very poignant restroom babble. I blame a year of improv classes, which blended my life with art—now, art’s invitations are everywhere, not just in picturesque corners.
And life has spilled into the corner. We often find ourselves here, hosting neighbors over Moscow Mules, welcoming our parents over for tea, enjoying our two children’s prolific drawings of robots, bustling spaghetti and cereal back and forth (hello, microfiber!) This space has been home to robust conversations, laughter, and prayer between hands held tightly around steaming meals. Tonight, it provides support for the week's-end glass of wine, and I sit, appreciating the black-and-white checkered floor that I somehow once laid with my husband over an eight-month pregnant belly. It’s okay, dear nook. Supper, and all of this, is poetry too.