Since we moved the bulky couch to face the windows, our living room became kind of small, in addition to becoming more fun. I do yoga on a thin strap between the desk and the couch, my yoga mat often laying on top of the desk chair's pentagonal legs-on-wheels, my legs definitely lay on top of the cold metal each time I go into a reclined twist.
Today I finished in corpse pose on the brink of twilight, my head resting at the side of the mat where my feet usually end up, my gaze lain on the green framed piece of paper I hung on the wall, maybe a month ago. I smiled. I couldn't read it, my glasses were on the coffee table, waiting for me to finish my practice, but I didn't have to see the letters to know what it says.
It is a poem, a poem about a home. I found it in my favourite magazine, a street newspaper. The author is one of their sellers. On a pastel green background, it reads:

Home

I've been roaming the worlds since ever,
peeking beneath the ivies
opening the shells on the streambed
building nylon fortresses out of tents next to the brushwood
recasting fjords to igloes
coating the scraps of abandoned buses in carpets
weaving dandelion pillows
looking for my home
yet I know
another home
but your soul
I can't have.

You must know, the poem lost some of the magic in translation, as usual. Especially the last part. I hope I'll find some better words, these are not sufficient.

So there I am, I managed to cram a twenty-minute practice in my brand-new rampant schedule, and I am reminded of this little treat on my wall. So sweet. What a feeling. On top of the pastel-green, there are indigo mountains, with the sky making just a step further towards purple. Sun peeking through a valley. A road beneath them has a tiny double-bicycle with a tiny couple on it, following the path. The pastels are well paired-up with a naive, almost child-like style.
The first layer is the poem and the colours that greet me. The second layer is the awareness of the fact that I, indeed, carefully took the page out of the newspaper, bought a cheap white frame, and hung it on the beige wall of our living room. Recognizing worth in something, recognizing what can be made out of it, is one of my top 10 experiences in this world and I warmly suggest it to any human wondering what are the main attractions of this destination we call life. It's an experience I was locked out of during my depression. Of course I was. Being unable to feel such a thing is so integral to depression, it might even be taken as a definition of the bloody thing, if you ask me.
Some four years ago, I was participating in a training about environmental consciousness. The trainers wrote some messages on red papers. Two of them read:

"We experience only what we are ready to experience."

and

"We hear/see only what we are ready to hear/see."

A girl asked our trainers if she might take those papers with her, bring them back home. They said yes, of course. I was just thinking: "You can do that?" It was not the idea of taking some papers home that seemed so novel to me, but finding such worth in them, in their message, that you decide to take it with you and incorporate it in your life, you take your time to figure out how to put this piece in the puzzle of your life, with such a simple thing as a red paper with some writing on it. I asked her for one, and she was kind enough to let me have it. I still have it in one of my many boxes I packed up after moving from my old, tiny-house apartment. It's waiting for it's time to come again. I'm waiting for it, too.
It made me smile today, this strange appreciation for this page in an august issue of my favourite magazine. The amazement I felt, enough to propel me into weaving the poetry into my spacetime. It was approaching dusk outside my windows and inside my pictureframes. Today's a good day. I do feel home on this floor, in this house. I do feel home in the soul of this excited little girl I stumbled across, damn, I could put her in a pictureframe and hang her on a wall, too.

Lots of love, xxxx