We just moved house 3 weeks ago. In that three weeks I was also away for a weekend. This is the first weekend I have felt truly settled. The house is organised and clean and we went down the road to the beach yesterday. My boyfriend’s Nan and Pop came for morning tea today and now they have left the wind is howling and I am settled in my study, finally blogging and reading up on first aid for a future course. The house even has slow roasting lamb wafting through!
I love my new study space. The sun streams in so brightly I had to close the blinds to take a pic for you 🙂
The space feels perfect, creative and warm. It has an air conditioner and I managed to score that amazing cutting table that is tucked in the corner so I now have all the “big ticket” sewing items I will need for a long time to come. There is one thing this room would not fit though: my bookshelves. In the old house they looked like this, even after alot of culling :
With heavy heart I sold them to a good friend and my books were relegated to the shelving of the built in wardrobes in the new room, which are tucked behind the display shelves with the owl and perfume you see in the first pic.
The room certainly looks less cluttered without the books, but I was still sad to hide them all away. But then today, I finally went in there hunting for my dictionary. I slid open the door and leaned in to be hit by a wave of that fantastic book smell. Paper and cardboard and promise. I stood there for several moments flooding with pleasure and realised that in tucking my darling books behind a door I have created my own pocket of the house where the smell of stories and wonder is concentrated, ready to be opened to instantly lift my spirits.
My books…they smell good.