Women, don’t let others tell you how to design your "sacred space"
Image by Harmony Lawrence on Pixabay
Renovation. Occasionally, we all have taken a look around our living abode, noticed some peeling paint, some cracks in the foundation, and made a decision to do some remodeling. Based on its condition and our financial situation, our changes may be superficial or structural or both.
Why do we do this? To improve the functioning of our home, to improve its aesthetics, to make us feel better when we look at our special place, our oasis from a world that drains our energy and our reserves every day.
Our bodies are no different. They are our homes for life. And I’m not going to allow someone else to tell me which changes to make: which colors to paint with, which walls should be kept up or broken down, or the amount of money I should spend on my “temple” — one that sustains me, nourishes me, and protects me from the thunder and lightning of human sickness or cruelty.
This is my body. I choose.
I choose the decor of my home. If I want plush carpeting and fluffy cushions to litter my living space, if I want billowy blankets, extra-thick padding on my bed and floors, that’s my prerogative. Let me roll in the squishy pillows of my body, let me revel in the soft jelly decor of this form that is my definition of beauty, of “home.”
Maybe I choose hard angles, firm bedding, and Spartan furnishings. My trappings may include doors with iron bars, metal fixtures, and stainless steel appliances that are long-lasting and durable. No softness here, only strength and well-built structures to show others I am a force with which to be reckoned. No one will rob this well-built dwelling, breach the security of my foundations. Let me revel in the majesty of my sinewy muscles, the powerful brawny architecture of which I am composed.
Maybe I want embellishment, loud colors and glaringly obnoxious pretension.
That is my choice as well.
Don’t tell me to decorate with soft hues, all “sugar and spice and everything nice.” If pastel pink is not my game, let me paint in brash, vivid strokes, show the world my penchant for bold design, for living in tune with my heart, which is loud, open, and yelling for color.
Or maybe I do want my abode to be coated in Pepto-Bismol princess pink with ruffles and lace curtains lining the windows to my soul. Maybe I want to adorn my space with all the wonderful silky textures of femininity, to embrace the sensuality and softness of my sensitive soul.
You can’t stop me. It’s my choice.
And don’t tell me that my home is too girly, too conformist, too gender narrow.
I will reply, “This is my home, and, for your information, I have rock-solid security measures in place beneath those velvet trappings. Don’t judge this owner simply by his home’s appearance. It makes you narrow-minded and judgmental.
Maybe my penchant is for minimalistic design, no glamorous touches, but instead raw rough wooden beams to announce my appreciation for the natural and for its simplicity of texture and line.
If this is my preference, I will furnish my space accordingly.
Not everyone needs lavish interior design, some want hard rough edges that display an appreciation for the real, the authentic, the beautiful message of life unadorned.
And just so you know.
I don’t need coats of paint to be a woman.
Maybe my dwelling is old, and I am not a fan of its vintage appearance. If I want to take a hammer and chisel and rebuild those walls with botox and fillers, once again, it’s my home, my house, and I can do what I want with it.
If it is displeasing to you, look away. You don’t have to live here. Only me.
And speaking of residents, I choose who gains access to my home. Only me.
My rooms are mine and mine alone. You don’t get to choose to come in uninvited. You don’t get to choose to sit down and “make yourself at home” unless I say so. My body is not for lease or rent or for sale.
And don’t tell me I have to take in visitors to make myself more welcoming or more acceptable. I choose when I want to be hostess, and when I want to take in boarders. Who gave you the rights to my home? It sure as heck wasn’t me.
I have the keys. And I’m not going to turn them over to anyone, especially strangers who have a false sense of entitlement.
I love this home of mine, and I hope you love yours too.
Our designs may look different, but underneath the foundations are similar. We both have hearts that beat with passion and souls that hunger for peace. Our homes are ours forever, and I hope you don’t change your decor to satisfy the status quo. Because they don’t have to live there. You do. So design it according to your needs and your heart, and tell the other homeowners to “mind their own business.”
Comments / 0