v. 56 Light on the Other Side of Marigold: On change, color, and the ways a home teaches us who we’re becoming
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This weekly(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
In my (not-so-humble) opinion, homes are meant to evolve right alongside us. Otherwise, they risk becoming relics of another time. You know the kind—brown floral velvet sofas wrapped in plastic, wood-paneled dens/ guest rooms that haven’t seen daylight since 1983, or that one room that still smells faintly of potpourri and cigarette smoke. (Was it just me that grew up in a home filled with smokers in the 80s?! Ah, well.) Spaces like that tell a story, yes, but they also say something else: no one’s changed a damn thing in decades. I’ve never wanted to live inside a time capsule. I want our home to move and breathe with us, to reflect who we are now instead of who we used to be.
In 2020, in the middle of an incredibly heavy season, I decided our living room needed something warm to hold me. So, we painted one wall marigold yellow. Just one—but it became the main attraction. It wasn’t a small choice, but neither was that time in my life. I was surrounded by grief, loss and uncertainty, and that single wall felt like a sunbeam I could count on. It was a warm hug when everything else felt frigid. It glowed through the darkest days and offered a faint reminder that joy could still exist, even when life felt shitty. For a long while, that wall was exactly what I needed.
But time changes things. Somewhere between the ache of then and the steadiness of now, I started to feel like that same marigold wall was closing in on me. The color that once wrapped me in comfort began to feel suffocating. It carried the memory of a season I had already made peace with, and I realized I no longer needed my home to hold me in that way. I wanted space and air and a living room that reflected the openness I was finally feeling inside.
So a few months ago, we restyled our living room and painted over our marigold wall, replacing it with the palest pink. Not bubblegum or blush but a soft color that opens up the space in the gentlest way. And Ira, in his infinite patience and absolute confidence in his masculinity, was fully on board. He looked at the swatch, shrugged, and said, “Sure, let’s do it.” I don’t know if that was enthusiasm or surrender, but I’ll take it. We painted together one weekend, and by the end, the room felt like it had exhaled.
Our style is not for everyone, I’ve never been one for minimalism. (My husband used to be but then he met me so here we are.)
Don’t mind the messy sofa blanket that allows Shaker to confidently pull himself up to watch t.v. alongside us.
I repainted the background of this vintage painting with a Mondrian-ish vibe that feels better in our home.
Now, that pink wall feels like an invitation to expand. It doesn’t hug you the way marigold once did; it invites you to breathe, to be curious, to create. It feels open and full of possibility. We’ve since added a metal curio cabinet to hold the colored glass I’ve collected over the past few years, each piece catching the light in its own joyful way thanks to Ira adding a light inside. (NOTE: I stalked FB Marketplace for almost about a year for this cabinet since IKEA discontinued it in white for some dumb reason. Me vs. IKEA: I won!) We swapped out the art, too. Some pieces are playful, others are weird but all reminders that beauty doesn’t have to “match” to belong.
Years ago, Ira told me about his time working at a gallery in New York City while (or maybe right after) he was still a student at the School of Visual Arts. Some of the collectors he met had storage spaces full of high-end art and they’d rotate the pieces in and out of their homes depending on the season or their mood. As someone who didn’t grow up with art, or very much materially at all, that idea seemed almost absurd to me. People had so much art that they paid to store it, just waiting to hang it somewhere new. It felt like a thing reserved for the ultra-wealthy, not for people like us. And yet, somehow, we’ve done a version of the same thing (minus the expense of a giant storage unit, I mean.)
I think homes are meant to feel alive and responsive, to shift and evolve as our lives do. Sometimes that means painting over the past or moving things around just to see how they feel in new light. It’s less about getting it perfect and more about letting the space breathe with us through the seasons of our lives. The marigold wall held my grief, and the pale pink one makes space for whatever comes next. Both were perfect in their own time, and maybe that’s what home is—a reflection of who we’ve been and who we are still becoming.
Every essay features a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
This week’s microjoy: It’s officially fall! Well, at least this week it is, we’ll see how long it lasts. Still, I love this season on the East Coast. The sweaters, the return of my cowboy boots, a great jacket, and the leaves falling all around. It really is miraculous that we get to witness this kind of magic every year. A microjoy, indeed.
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With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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