I've been reading an amazing book called Handcrafted Modern. It is written by Leslie Williamson and explores, through photographs, the homes of notable mid-century designers. Their homes! She writes, "Our home is the heart of our private selves. What we have in it can be more telling that a portrait of our face." I know this to be true. And I know this to be the reason it is taking me so long to commit to buying a house of my own. This morning I took Bello to the vet to have lump-removal surgery. Nothing too serious, mostly just precautionary, but I couldn't help but be rigid with anxiety during the hours he was away. I spent those hours in my room, sitting on my bed laid with a pale pink wool blanket. I faced the three large windows pointing south. I watched the clouds form and race and tumble and release rain as they hurried by. I listened to James Blake over and over and over again. And lastly, I read this book. Today was odd because I was still. It was a still day filled with pictures of homes and thoughts of my child.

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