Update: I started writing ‘These four walls’ before this past weekend’s brutally violent escalation in Rafah (and elsewhere). When it all weighs so heavy, it feels impossible and even tone deaf to not include a quick prelude here before publishing this piece on our homes. A home is of course many things beyond four walls, but at the very least should be a place of safety. Message me if you’re in need of more ideas or tactical ways to help those in Gaza and beyond - there are many, and we can try our best together. In the meantime, enjoy some of my other inside thoughts, these ones are a little lighter with a little more ornamentation. xoxo - Manasa
Sometimes I want to live in a Nancy Meyers’ home. The vision starts with linen, a lot of linen. Then there’s the pea gravel pathway flanked by olive trees that leads to a double French door opening. I imagine Crosby, Stills and Nash harmonizing Our House while I arrange my own fresh-cut flowers and bake fresh quoissants* and pies. They lay out to cool on a rustic yet chic island weathered by years of homework assignments scribbled atop. And then I remember I hate baking. And most domestic tasks really. The scene is a little less cool with five loads of laundry awaiting attention. Plus I have way too much of a sweet tooth to ever wait for any baked goods to cool.
My alternate dream is a traditional South Indian style home with sturdy teak pillars holding up a verandah on all sides. Slightly open jasmine buds exhale aroma from brass bowls. Vibrant greens of lotus leaves and coconut trees contrast against the terracotta roof tiles. Rain pours through the open center courtyard as we drink a frothy Horlicks (my chai of choice) and chit chat. In the morning we are awoken far too early by a fan being turned off, loud clanging stainless steel falling everywhere while a grinder screams and MS Subbalakshmi chants. Wait, what? How’d that part get in here? My condolences to those of you who have experienced this very draft-less alarm clock.
Maybe there is no one dream home not interrupted by reality, but over the years I’ve tried to incorporate these styles amongst others (or at least their associated vibes) in decorating my homes. It’s the one domestic-ish task I really enjoy and appear to be naturally skilled at. At one point I even thought of starting an interior design consultancy but soon realized I’d have to give people what they wanted, even if I thought it was u-g-l-y. No thanks. Just give me your money and two able bodies so I can source and rearrange my selected treasures in peace. But even I, an avid Architectural Digest reviewer, design show critic, and harsh grader of Zillow homes can agree there’s no specific style that can reign supreme - its more so tiers of effort and intention.
I love design, art and decor, though perhaps not evidenced by my appearance doing errands or school drop offs (if you’ve seen me there, you have my permission to agree). What is it I love about design in a home? It’s not just about what looks pretty, though there is that. It’s the details and the layers. Layers of wood, stone, tile, textiles, and paint, detailed with the smudges and dents of a full life. And when accessorized with intention - layers of culture, history, travels, and stories add depth. Our homes can be like cocoons lined with reminders of who you were, who you’re becoming, or at least….who you knew was getting rid of furniture. Undeniably, being in your own space with meaningful pieces around you grounds you with the ultimate sense of belonging - and I think we all blossom in belonging. Every new home we’d move to as kids, I’d eagerly await the emptying of the last box like it was the final puzzle piece I needed to start my new life. If you’ve ever wondered why you feel different when walking into a well designed space, or a recently cleaned one, it’s because research shows our physical surroundings do in fact deeply impact how we feel, specifically our emotional and mental wellbeing (interestingly, sometimes more so for women than men). In short, art in its various manifestations matters. Soothing to the eye usually means soothing to the soul. As one of my creative idols Rajiv Surendra (Kevin G has come a long way since the Mathletes) says, “playing around in your beautiful space with your treasures makes you happy”. He even gets excited heading to his storage unit. It makes sense, I mean, just look at it.
Before the pandemic, I would think about the various forms in my home, occasionally prioritizing function at my husband’s behest. Some budgets won’t let you have both in the same item (though there’s often no reason why the nicer looking version costs more). In this (sorta, maybe) post pandemic era, we’ve all experienced the increased importance of our physical space and a rise in the need for functionality. My husband still works from home, and friends and family often visit and stay with us. It means that our home has to work with a lot of living being done in it, even before the toddler tornado hits. For many years we had a giant gourd shaped object with an elegant narrow neck sitting in the corner of our living room. It was from an artisan market in Nairobi, with intricately hand carved elephants chiseled into it, tanned by the sun. It reminded me of living there and of weekends spent exploring, aimless yet content. It would also topple over every time I tried to use it for anything more than a memento, and has since been replaced by an IKEA cabinet of kids toys. She is neither beauty nor grace, but she keeps the Magnatiles at bay.
Herein lies a challenge I’ve been grappling with - how to adorn and maintain my space so that it feels good. It’s a feeling made complex by time, propensity (mine! my husband’s! my son’s! my dog’s!), energy, budget, size, and function. It’s also one made important by my mental health. By that I mean it’s mostly about my personal love of design, coupled with some actual science (like this article showing a cluttered home can lead to being a more stressed and anxious person), and only a little about the other thing - that if I’m a stay at home mom (still ugh-ing at the limiting implications of that phrase), shouldn’t my home be…immaculate? Or if I’m not being productive out of the house, shouldn’t I be productive in it? Maybe even on it? Thankfully, most days this is a fleeting component, especially when I consider that I’ve always been this way, optimizing and rearranging furniture in every childhood bedroom. I’ve also come to be more critical of the ‘shoulds’ in my life (see more on the words we use here). The truth is we are often one person trying to take the place of what used to be four people doing variations of domestic and community work, so much so that even the 25 hours of childcare I have a week (as compared to the approximate 112 hours a week where a mess could be made**) wouldn’t be enough to do even one of those roles well. So if you share a similar sentiment, let this serve as your official release from it.
What I am left with are the questions that appear trivial at first but sometimes hidden in the small things, are the big things. We don’t live in our forever home, I don’t know many people who do. I won’t get into the dizzying numbers of home ownership in the US or Los Angeles, the scarcity mindset of being from an immigrant family, the math behind renting or how the privilege of having a place at all never escapes me. Because even though science and our spirit may say otherwise, it’s sometimes hard not to think of spending dollars on our rental interiors as wasteful too. But I’ve punted many things to the day when we do own our home, including some things I love, since rentals often feel like code for temporary, despite having lived exclusively in them for most of my life. So when, where, and how do you invest in your surroundings to love the life that you lead now? I think this is the big kahuna, because I don’t want to wait for that.
In this case, I’m going to answer this potentially deep and broadly applicable question literally and say that the when is this summer, the where is my rented home, and the how is Portola paint. Or maybe it’s wallpaper and that Danish rug I’ve been eyeing. Or maybe I’ll just tidy up the IKEA cabinet where my son now keeps his own treasures, light a candle, snuggle into our linen sheets, and call it a day. I sure love that too.
How about you?
* spell it how you say it folks
** Enjoy this math: 168 hours in a week minus a generous 56 presumably spent sleeping leaves 112 hours worth of mess-making opportunities. And that’s just for one person.
ICYMI: Career guilt | Do you have to know sorrow to know kindness? | Captain’s log | Where are you from? | Mama uses good words and bad words | What do we owe each other?
Thanks for sharing your Substack, Manasa! I devoured all your entries. I too am thinking about Gaza, and nearly every day. I feel immense guilt for having food, water, and shelter. But I also know that my grief, sorrow, and horror can exist alongside my experience of wonder. ❤️