When I was younger, it was all the rage to have one of those frilly little mosquito nets over your bed. They turned an otherwise ordinary bed into this magical kingdom of fairy princess awesome-ness. I had one, the kind with the velvety white trim on the ends that I would play with obsessively (I have this weird compulsion to pet soft things… velvet, teddy bears, the blunt ends of my hair. It drives my mother insane). My bed became my own little castle on a cloud.
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Even now, little has changed. Though I long ago discarded the cheap mosquito cocoon, my bed is and will forever be a sacred place.
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My bed is where I spend the most free time, it’s a place that sucks me in and always makes me comfortable. It’s fluffy and familiar and pretty. When I first started moving all over the place and feeling a little more out of my element, I was struggling to find a definition for home. Was San Diego my home? Boston? New York? My laptop, which is arguably where I spend the majority of my time? I had a lot of conflicting opinions… Some people thought that home was where I grew up, some argued home was where my family is. I tended to think that home (which, it should be noted, has little or nothing to do with a physical house) was more of a concept, something I could take with me wherever I went, even if I couldn’t pack it up all neatly in one of my many boxes.
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To me, home is transitory. But my bed is as close to a physical representation of home as I can get. My bed is the single thing that can make any plain room look like it’s mine. I’d like to think that I can take the connection even further… my bedding (which I change out every couple of years for a fresh “breakover”) kinda represents my personality. It’s double sided (striped on one side, flowery weirdness on the other) like my innate Gemini, and it’s all earthy, natural tones. Blue, teal, green, tan, brown… I’d like to think it’s a nice contrast to the bright bubble gum pink it was before.
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The green in my bedding is the most important part. I try to surround myself with green because it makes me feel happy and because it makes me think and more thoughts=better writing. Before (with the pink), I was spastic, stressed and high-strung. And though my commitments doubled, the greenery makes me more collected and reflective. I love having a nicely made bed. No matter how cluttered my room or my life, if my bed is neat and tide and put together, then my head is too. My bed is where I do my best thinking.
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As such, I should also mention that when I say my bed is a “sacred place,” I also mean that it is a chaste place. There is no hooking up in my beloved haven. You know how people tell you not to watch TV in your “sleep place” because it messes with your REM cycles and whatnot? Well, I can’t be hooking up in my “think space.” Mixing sex and thoughts never really works out; it just makes for dirty thoughts. Plus, I can’t be bothered to clean my sheets.
