soil

Whether people are conscious of it or not, they actually derive countenance and sustenance from the 'atmosphere' of the things they live in or with. They are rooted in them just as a plant is in the soil in which it is planted.

–Frank Lloyd Wright

The newest DWR catalog arrived today, and of course I've found about 15 things that I'd love to have. Most of them would fit quite nicely in my yet-to-be solidified dream home. I really like the above quote from Frank, it's on page 22.

As a kid, there was a framed message frequently in our various kitchens. I particularly remember it from when we lived in Cheyenne. It said "Home is where the Air Force sends you." Another said: "Bloom where you are planted." Cheesy. But good. That attitude from my childhood obviously helps in my life now as I'm moving around so much, as friendships change, and roommates come and go. As I harness those turns in life and attempt to accelerate through the transitions, stronger after the next curve. For a small town, there's not much stagnant life among the community I'm connected with here. It takes a while for sediment to form. Even small layers of sediment feel comforting in relationships. This attitude of blooming has made all the difference; accepting the soil I'm in, and growing accordingly.

But how much does the soil affect us? How much does having 3 other roommates affect my well-being? And is that good or bad? How much does it affect me when I don't have quite the same friends this summer as I did last summer? Am I reinventing myself every 3 months as I make new friends on a rather consistent basis? How much does it affect me, as a designer and occasional homebody, that I'm living in a halfway-decorated home? With horridly ugly (free) couches? And a dirty kitchen floor that none of us really care that much about to clean very often?

I'm home on a rainy evening in July. It's nice. One roomie's out with her mom. The other two are hiding in their rooms. It feels more like fall. Like October. Like it could snow tonight. But I bet it won't. Maybe in the mountains though. It's chilly.

I'm going to bake some bread. Trying a new recipe. Minus the whole wheat—I'm out. Then, I'm scouring a few books to pick one to loan to a friend, and hope to dig into Broken. I heard the author, Lisa Jones, speak this evening at the Noble Hotel here in Lander. She's originally from Lander, a NOLS-grad, and writes rather eloquently. Well, at least what she read was. I bought a copy of the book for a friend and hope to sneak in a read before giving it away.

But... if my attention span isn't book-ready, I'll probably just browse my newest and yet unread copies of Outside and Sunset. Excited for an evening at home, minus any sort of catalog-production stress. It feels strange. But quite good.