Reading this post made me so proud of my home. Here’s a sample:
“I love going to visit people in untidy, lived-in houses. They never look the same twice, like a landscape in changing light. I feel flattered, welcome, and comfortable when invited into a lived-in house. I feel that way because things have not been hidden. I have been allowed to step into someone’s life just as it is, and I take that as a compliment. . . .
I don’t know why, sometimes, when you go to someone’s house, they say “Sorry about the mess,” when their possessions are lying around. Why are possessions called mess? Why are they apologised for? They are evidence of living, of doing, of being, creating. They are nothing to be ashamed of. Unless there’s like a dead body under it all and the laundry has been carefully arranged to hide it.
In impeccably tidy houses, I feel incredibly uncomfortable. I’m never sure if I’m allowed to sit down and relax. I feel I’m messing the place up just by walking through the front door. If my mug is whisked away and scrubbed the minute I finish my tea, I feel it’s not okay for me to be there. Maybe it isn’t.”
Random pic of our living room (literally the most recent I could find, in order to show the house at its most random/normal, including our zombie cat):
Pretty sure she’d like my place. I have friends over at least once a week and I never tidy up a thing. Sometimes, if a friend is allergic to cats and I remember in time, I put the couch covers (which is to say, several towels, a blanket and a mohair rug which surely can’t be good for anything else) under my desk while they’re there. The desk which is also in the same room.
Sometimes I tidy up the room-wide covering of toys after Louisette goes to bed. Sometimes not.
Look at Louisette not mangling the cat! The cat certainly looks hesitant, but it’s clear that she’d rather a (supervised) pat from Louisette than no patting at all. Poor neglected cat