Making Peace — Part Two — Making Peace with Our Surroundings
I have always admired a certain kind of home. Not necessarily the grand or beautifully renovated sort, with gleaming countertops and cupboards that close with a satisfying little click, but the kind in which everything seems to have found its place, whether it was particularly lovely to begin with or not.
There may be an old-fashioned sink beneath the window, a collection of mismatched cupboards, or countertops that have long since surrendered any claim to fashion. The floor might be worn in places, and the kitchen table may bear the marks of several generations of ordinary living.
And yet, somehow, the room is charming.
There is a little lamp upon the counter, a jug of flowers beside the window, and perhaps a row of well-used dishes arranged upon an open shelf. A pretty cloth softens an otherwise unremarkable table, and the afternoon light falls generously across everything, making no distinction between what is beautiful and what is not.
Nothing has been replaced. Very little has been improved in the usual sense of the word.
And still, one cannot help but want to sit down and stay awhile.
I have come to think that the loveliness of such a room has less to do with its furnishings than with the person who lives there.
For there is a particular kind of contentment in someone who can look upon an imperfect thing, acknowledge its imperfections, and then get on quite happily with making the best of it.
She does not appear to be waiting for a new kitchen before she begins to enjoy the old one. Nor does she seem especially troubled by the fact that her cupboards might never be fashionable or that her sink is not the one she would have chosen.
She simply lives there, and makes it lovely.
I think there is something rather wonderful about that.
We live in a world that is forever encouraging us to improve our surroundings. There is always a prettier room to admire, a more beautiful kitchen to imagine, or some clever new arrangement that promises to make our homes everything we have ever wanted them to be.
And I must confess that I understand the attraction perfectly.
There are few things I enjoy more than making a room beautiful. A fresh coat of paint, a lovely piece of wallpaper, or a carefully chosen lamp can give an ordinary corner an entirely new character. Even the smallest improvement can be a source of considerable pleasure.
But I have begun to wonder whether the pleasure of improving our homes can sometimes become tangled with the belief that they must be improved before we can properly enjoy them.
We look at a room and see not what is there, but what ought to be there.
The cupboards should be painted. The countertops should be replaced. The furniture would look better elsewhere. The curtains are not quite right.
And before long, a perfectly serviceable room has become a collection of disappointments.
How easily we can overlook the warmth of a home while concentrating upon the things we wish were different.
Perhaps the trouble is not that we care too much about beauty, but that we have become a little too particular about where we expect to find it.
We look for it in the new and the carefully arranged, in the polished surfaces and perfectly coordinated rooms. Yet beauty has a curious habit of appearing in places where no one has made any special provision for it.
In the sunlight resting upon an old wooden table. In the cheerful disorder of books that have been read and returned to their shelves. In a worn armchair that remains everyone's favorite, despite having lost its youthful appearance many years ago.
And sometimes, most unexpectedly, in a kitchen that would never be mistaken for a fashionable one.
I do not mean that everything old or unattractive must secretly be beautiful. Some things are simply rather ugly, and no amount of poetic imagination will make them otherwise.
An unfortunate countertop may remain an unfortunate countertop for the whole of its useful life.
But perhaps that is perfectly all right.
Perhaps we do not need to find beauty in every object in order to live beautifully among them.
We can place a vase of flowers upon the countertop and enjoy the flowers. We can hang a favorite picture above the old cupboards and take pleasure in the picture. We can prepare a lovely meal in a kitchen that is not especially lovely itself.
And we can do all of these things without continually wishing the room were something else.
There is a quiet freedom in that thought.
It means we needn't postpone the pleasure of homemaking until every improvement has been made. We needn't regard an unfinished room as a failure or an outdated kitchen as something to apologize for.
We can care for what we have, make it as pleasant as our means and circumstances allow, and then allow ourselves the simple happiness of living there.
Of course, there will always be things we would change if we could. A more convenient arrangement, a prettier cupboard, a window where there is presently only a wall.
And perhaps someday we shall change them.
But the days between now and someday are worth enjoying, too.
I think that is what I admire most about those wonderfully unpretentious homes that seem to possess a charm no amount of money could quite reproduce.
They have not been made beautiful by the absence of imperfection.
They have been made welcoming by the presence of contentment.
Someone has decided that what is already there is enough to begin with. Enough to care for, enough to take pleasure in, enough to make a home.
And there is something deeply reassuring about that.
For no home, however lovely, can remain forever untouched by the ordinary business of living. Paint will chip, furniture will wear, and the prettiest rooms will eventually need tending. There will always be something that could be repaired, replaced, rearranged, or improved.
If our contentment depends upon everything being just as we wish it, we may find ourselves waiting a very long time indeed.
But if we can learn to appreciate our surroundings without requiring them to be perfect, a great deal of happiness becomes available to us immediately.
The old table is still a place to gather. The imperfect kitchen still fills with the pleasant smells of supper. The familiar rooms still shelter the people and possessions we hold dear.
And the afternoon sunlight, fortunately, has never been particular about the countertops upon which it falls.
I should like to remember that more often.
To make things lovely where I can, and to be less troubled by the things I cannot change. To enjoy the pleasure of improving a room without allowing the wish for something better to diminish what is already good.
To remember that a beautiful home is not necessarily one in which everything is beautiful.
Sometimes it is simply a place where someone has learned to be content.
And perhaps that is the loveliest thing of all.