The House We Live In: A Series on Building the Sustainable Home in Tucson, Arizona
In honor of Valentine’s Day, a few words about my bedroom. I have a brand new bed that I bought when I moved back to Arizona. Actually, Matthew just happened to be with me when I ordered it — I was on a work trip to New York and he’d popped down from Boston for a visit and somehow I felt more comfortable pulling the trigger on this sort of major purchase with him there. It will fit. It’s a good design. My taste is not totally out of whack. A design professional agrees.
And so in thinking about the bedroom, it centers around this bed that I already own, that I chose for myself. It’s a platform bed, low to the ground, perfect for a cozy nest. The headboard is made of reclaimed wood — it’s a style I suppose one would call “rustic modern.” Something about the spareness of it, with the natural element, and the position near the floor, makes it incredibly comfortable for me. When I curl up in there after a long day, I think I may never come out. Sometimes in the middle of a taxing day I close my eyes and picture it, one small plant perched on the top of the headboard, its soft gray sheets. Heaven.
I’ve seen all kinds of bedrooms. My parents, when I was growing up, had a big grand bedroom that had two different entrances and a sizable sitting space, in addition to the California king bed and the walk-in closet. It was, at times, a family gathering space (in pajamas), not just their private sanctum. The way the upstairs of the house was set up, you could go through the bedroom, through the master bath, and into the guest room’s bath, out into the hallway, and thus go in a loop all through the house. There was no dead end. It was lovely. It was a beautiful, bright room that felt almost like a treehouse with the view from the large windows.
I’ve seen elaborate romantic bedrooms, with canopies and displays of beautiful little glass bottles and beads and lamps. I stayed in a hotel room once, in Barcelona, that had a hammock. Bedrooms have televisions, cribs, home office space, exercise equipment.
But every time I’ve envisioned my bedroom, I’ve planned it small. There’s the bed, and nightstands, and space to walk around it, and nothing more. The clothes, dressers, jewelry–it’s all in the dressing room, next door. There’s nothing to see, nothing to put away. It’s spare, and clean, and calm. You can’t go through it. There is nothing to do there but be in bed.
This is the core of the house that is mine. The privatest space in the house that only holds those I have admitted. This is safety, quiet, the beating heart of the self in its most intimate moments, its most exhausted, its saddest and most hopeful.
