We’ve all experienced it. You walk into someone’s home for the very first time perhaps curious about the contents within, the private space of this person and how they live. Possibly the stuff their brains and hearts are made of. Maybe you’re expecting to find a key to their inner lives, an inside glance into their soul. It could be in the form of thumbed through books from their personal collection, trinkets from their travels, or hand picked art adorning their walls. A noteworthy rug here, some scattering of papers, letters, an abundance of spices on the shelf, some semblance of life and meaning. The structure and bones of the space can even be telling.
From time to time, these expectations are met with utter satisfaction. You walk in and your heart and senses are alight. While sprawling on the sofa, the idea of curling in front of the raging fire, book in hand, somehow don’t seem out of the question. The entire gamut of ease and comfort are present. The lighting is soft and natural, music is playing, food and drink are available at the ready. The home is not entirely unsullied, there is perhaps some evidence of work in progress, candles at half mast, a small littering of toys on the floor from child’s play. All these components add to the element of life, and a life well lived.