August 28, 2020

We’re weathering the same storm, but our boats are very different. For some it’s a bamboo raft, for others a 200-foot schooner. I’ve thought a lot about home lately, and how one’s physical space has influenced their experience and digestion of the last six months. I’ve thought about my sister-in-law and her husband in a small condominium in downtown Toronto with two pre-schoolers and no green space. I’ve thought about the families we know with heaps of land and lake views up north. I’ve thought about multigenerational families living in tiny apartments in San Paolo. I’ve thought about front line workers living in hotel rooms. I’ve thought about Elton John in his Los Angeles mansion. I’ve also thought about the happy times I’ve spent in a tent, and how the only home that really matters is the skin we’re in. It’s like Blake Edwards said in Vanity Fair‘s Proust Questionnaire when asked where he would most like to live. “Comfortably in myself.” This morning, a local florist whose work I know and admire posted a lovely image of her country cabin accompanied by this caption. “For the past six months, I’ve lived north and in the city. What I’ve come to learn, is that there’s no hierarchy in the different environments. Only the circumference of my own being. The circle I draw around my energy. The nest of my own thoughts. The others that I invite in. The common denominator of sustenance. The nomenclature between loved ones.”


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