A Gentle Resting Place
Some homes arrive quietly. They don’t announce themselves with grand entrances or long histories. They simply open a door and say, rest here for a while.
This is one of those places.
Out back, a lemon tree stands in patient generosity. Its branches don’t hurry; they offer what they have when the season is right. There’s something grounding about it — a reminder that even in temporary seasons, life still bears fruit. You don’t need permanence to grow.
Nearby, an ornament of an open bird cage hangs in soft defiance of captivity. The door isn’t just unlocked — it’s intentionally left open. Freedom isn’t forced here. It’s assumed. Come and go. Stay as long as you need. Fly when you’re ready.
The bird of paradise plant feels like a quiet celebration. Its sculptural leaves reach upward as if listening for light, teaching that beauty doesn’t need to shout. It just shows up, fully itself. There’s courage in that — especially when everything else feels in transition.
Inside, Gerard’s old round table that he brought out of storage and placed in our previous home on the 22nd of November anchors the dining room space. It’s completely untouched by flame. Now, flowers rest at its center, gentle and alive. A round table has no sharp edges, no hierarchy. It says: all are welcome; all have a place, all have a voice.
This home is not a destination — it’s a pause. A safe in-between. A breathing space where the soul can loosen its shoulders and remember how to exhale.
Temporary doesn’t mean insignificant. Sometimes it means intentional. Sometimes it means protected. Sometimes it means this is exactly where you’re meant to be — just long enough to gather strength, clarity, and light.
And then, when the time comes, you’ll know how to fly again.
