My home is missing an essential ingredient. It is missing an essential piece of the puzzle that declares it to be a home that belongs to "Becka". I knew it was missing, but I couldn't place eactly what "it" was. Now I know.
My mother, who perhaps knows me better than I do myself, looked at my pictures and said, "You are such a colorful person. You love color, and your house doesn't have any."
Where does she get the idea that I like color? Perhaps from this.
This was the play room area of the living room at our old house
Here's another view. I made the futon cover from some fabric I bought at IKEA. Those stenciled flowers never did get finished. I decided I didn't like them very much. And I have this issue with completing things
Here is the living room in it's final change and with the garish blue changed to a more mature but still brightly colored green.
Ignore the look on the boys' faces. It was Christmas morning and the were still sleepy. I didn't take any great pictures of that room and so this one will have to do.
I loved that room, it told people who I was, the moment they walked through the door. I heard jokes about needing sunglasses, about how I must have been high when I chose the colors. The truth was that it was a wonderful room. It was creative, imaginative, and so friendly. After getting over the first initial blinding shock, other people liked it as well. After being in the room for ten minutes, it grew on them. It was amazing how many compliments I got from that fun room. When we moved here, a certain set of people, let me know that they hoped I had matured enough to not destroy this new home with my obnoxious taste in color. For some reason, I let it get to me. I decided that their opinion was important enough that I would deny myself, my family, and my friends the one of things they loved about me.
Color. A sense of childlike love for brightness and simplicity. Creativity that defies normality.