The Cave We Chose
On painting walls dark, learning to trust ourselves, and letting a home unfold slowly.
“There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.”
~ Jane Austen
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Three weeks into living here, we painted our first room.
The sitting room faces north west, and for most of the day it sits in shadow. At first I was worried about this. I worried it would feel gloomy or cold, a room we ignored in favour of brighter, lighter spaces. But in the evenings, right around the time we naturally drift towards the living room, it transforms. The setting sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the whole room glows. The light arrives low and warm and generous, as if it has been saving itself all day just for this room.
We knew early on that we wanted this space to feel cosy. Not styled or impressive or minimalist in the way the internet likes living rooms to be. We wanted a room that would pull us towards it at the end of the day. A room for blankets and movies and cups of tea gone cold beside us. A room that felt safe.
The couch is already hidden beneath fluffy throws, and soft lamps mean we rarely turn on the overhead light. To lean fully into that feeling, we painted the walls, and the ceiling, a rich dark brown. Alongside the dark brown sofa, it has created something surprisingly cave-like. But not in a bleak way. In the way caves must once have felt to people thousands of years ago: sheltered, warm, protected from whatever was happening outside.
Around the deep window frame we painted gold. In the evening sunlight it almost disappears into the glow, as though the sun itself has turned the brown into gold for a few fleeting minutes before dusk settles in.
I think this room has become a reflection of what this house means to us.
Not perfection. Not performance. Just safety. Warmth. Freedom.
A place where we can decorate however we like without worrying whether it is fashionable enough or sensible enough or approved by somebody else. A place where we can make choices simply because they make us feel good.
I still catch myself wanting permission.
Permission to choose the paint colour. Permission to spend the small budget we have on a lamp or a shelf or cushions. Permission to trust my instincts. Sometimes I still assume that somebody else must know better than me, that somebody else would make smarter choices, more sensible decisions, fewer mistakes.
There is still a small part of me waiting to be laughed at for choosing the wrong thing.
But alongside that, something gentler is emerging too. Patience, maybe. Both with myself and for myself.
I am slowly learning that I do not need to make every decision immediately. I do not need to have the whole house figured out within weeks. I do not need to know today how we’ll organise the coats beneath the stairs or what the dining nook will eventually look like or where every plant will live in the garden.
Mistakes are not proof that I’ve failed. Usually they are just proof that I tried.
And often, waiting quietly for the right idea feels better than rushing towards the first one out of fear.
Outside, spring is now fully unfolding. Trees are greening almost overnight and bushes that looked lifeless only weeks ago are bursting back into bloom. Birds are tucked away in nests waiting for eggs to hatch. In the fields nearby, lambs and calves stand on impossible legs, all wobble and uncertainty.
Everything at this time of year seems to understand instinctively that growth cannot be rushed.
Even the dog understands it better than I do.
On warm afternoons he lies stretched out on the back patio, nose lifted slightly towards the ocean air drifting over the road. He doesn’t worry about whether rain will come tomorrow. He doesn’t question whether he should be doing something more productive with his afternoon. He simply lies there, warm and content, fully inside the moment he is already in.
I think that is what I am trying to learn too.
To stop living constantly in the next decision, the next problem, the next improvement. To stop treating rest as something earned only once everything is complete.
Because maybe this is enough already.
Maybe it is enough that three weeks ago this house felt unfamiliar and echoing, and now it smells faintly of paint and dinner and dog hair and home.
Maybe it is enough to sit in our new little cave in the evenings while the windows turn gold and feel proud of how far we’ve already come.
Until next time,
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