There’s a vibration to the world outside—an undercurrent of movement, voices, and the hum of life constantly shifting. I feel it when I step into it, the pulse of everything happening at once, an energy to dance with and interact with. But when I return home, something shifts. The outside world dissolves, and in its place, a hush settles around me. My space. Its woven with the threads of who I am and who I am becoming. It enfolds me in its quiet embrace, like a friend or a lover. It’s more than just a room. It’s a reflection, a sanctuary that holds me as I soften back into myself.
Recently, I stayed somewhere else. At first, it felt like a shell—its stillness unfamiliar, its bed foreign. Like a hermit crab walking around with a shell thats a bit too small. I lay awake, restless in a space that had yet to know me. It wasn’t the absence of comfort but the absence of something - me. The room waited, awkward and pinched, as though unsure of how to hold me. And I realized, in that moment, that sanctuary is not something we find. It’s something we create. We create with the space, listening to what she wants, and what I want, and finding the place we meet.
So I began. Small, gentle touches. Sheets that felt like old friends, furniture nudged into quiet alignment, a candle flickering in the dim light. The scent of incense filling the air, the space became warm, something known. And slowly, the room shifted. It no longer felt like a place I was passing through. It became a vessel, a quiet container that could hold me, mirror me, and invite me to rest.
The resonance of space, reflecting what we bring to it. A sanctuary isn’t about furniture or walls; it’s about presence, intention, and the quiet knowing that we belong within it. In every softened edge, in every chosen detail, we invite ourselves back. And in that, we don’t just create a home. We create a place to return to ourselves.