Slow Living
When our youngest left for school, I walked through the house for a week feeling slightly disoriented. Not sad, exactly — more like a person in a familiar place who suddenly realizes the landmarks have shifted. The house was the same. But something about the quiet had changed the rooms.
The first thing I noticed was that I stopped decorating for durability. For twenty years, every choice had been filtered through an unspoken question: can this survive children? Sofas with dark upholstery. Rugs with patterns that hid stains. Breakable things kept on high shelves.
The bedroom came first. I replaced the practical duvet with a linen one in undyed oatmeal. I put bedroom wall sconces up instead of the reading lamps that had sat on the nightstands for fifteen years. I moved the practical dresser to the guest room and brought in a smaller antique chest that had been in storage.
Then the living room. Lighter upholstery. A rug with texture instead of pattern. The artwork moved to eye level. A vase on the coffee table that could not be knocked over by a child because there are no longer any children to knock it over.
Empty nesting is not painless. But the house is mine in a way it has not been for a very long time. I am still learning what I actually want it to be — and that process is one of the more interesting things I have done in years.