Where the Heart Is

In the weeks following my arrival in Oregon, I worked diligently and deliberately to make my studio apartment a space for my creativity and energy to thrive. I spent many nights reading by candlelight, sitting on a hardwood floor. Of course, I had plenty of time on my hands to assemble the trappings of a modern existence, like a sofa or an end table, but to do so would have been to work against one of my significant objectives for this new chapter, which is to consume less often and more deliberately.

It was not until late November that I got around to procuring a sleeper sofa, which remains my only piece of furniture. I had been spending nights on a sleeper pad I keep around for backpacking. The thin foam barrier was more than sufficient for the fine autumn weather we were having in Portland, but my satisfaction with the impromptu bed was waning as the approaching winter solstice made the nights darker and colder.

It was on this sleeper sofa that I sat talking with a friend from Tokyo, H, during her visit to Portland in December. When I learned she would be visiting, I procured a few more things to allow us to pass the time with some food and drink. I walked to a local vintage store and found some copper mugs, a few steel plates sturdy enough for outdoor use, and a jug for tea. All of these were consistent with two rules loosely guiding all of my item purchases–that anything I buy needs to have more than one use, and that I am not to be any one item’s first or last owner.

For the first few minutes, my apartment’s minimalist aesthetic dominated our conversation as H remarked on how charming this or that thing is. Once past that subject, the things faded and we turned our attention to more substantial topics of discussion. In other words, we were left with the essential, with each other.

Today, when I look at the objects with which I share space in my quaint studio, I can recall the circumstances of each item’s procurement quite well. Were it that I had purchased any of these things online at, say, Amazon or some big-box retailer, I would be missing this warmth I now attach to my living space as a mostly accurate reflection of my creative self.

I make it a point not to develop attachments to physical objects, but there are a few items in my life toward which I feel a strong affinity:

•  A brown bottle serving now as a candleholder
•  An apple tree branch, which brings to the room a certain comforting feeling that I cannot quite place
• An old, black Pyrex mug, chosen after quite a great deal of searching and mental tryings-out, in which I have placed my toothbrush and tongue scraper

Most nights, the flame of a candle resting atop my upcycled brown bottle provides all the light and warmth I need for a few hours of quality reading and writing time.