Greetings my lovely feral, dark, and bright ones,

realized I’ve been holding onto thoughts all week, waiting until the end of the week to brain-dump everything onto my blog. Then I’d run to AI for help making sense of it all and turning it into something readable. The problem was, there was usually so much there that one post would have been ridiculously long, so one giant brain dump would turn into three or four separate posts.

I don’t want to keep doing it that way.

Starting today, I’m going to let the thoughts come out when they actually happen. Morning thoughts with my magic bean potion before work. Maybe some lunchtime thoughts if I have the time, and evening thoughts when the day is winding down.

What that looks like on the blog, I haven’t completely figured out yet. Maybe I’ll post something in the morning and again at night. Maybe some days there will only be one post. I don’t know yet, and I don’t think I need to decide right now.

I just know I’d rather write while the thoughts are fresh instead of storing everything in my head all week and trying to untangle it all at once.

Something has been shifting in our house lately, and at first I thought it was simply the decorating bug biting again. Ronnie painted the bedroom, we started talking about furniture, I began looking at curtains and window treatments, and one innocent decision led directly to another. You know how this goes. You change one thing, which suddenly makes you notice three other things, and before long you are researching cellular shades with the intensity of someone preparing to testify before Congress.

Apparently, I now have opinions about window treatments. Strong ones. This is what happens when you reach fifty-five. One day you are young and carefree, and the next you are genuinely excited because you discovered double curtain rods.

But as Ronnie and I have been making these changes, I have realized something else is happening too. This is not simply about buying new things or making the rooms prettier. We are becoming much more intentional about the home we already have—about the colors we want around us, the textures that make a room feel warm, the scents that change its mood, and all those little details that make you walk through the door and immediately know you are home.

Our house already has years of us inside it. There are plants crowded around windows, artwork on the walls, collections tucked into cabinets, blankets people actually use, dog toys where dog toys inevitably end up, and enough evidence of animals throughout the house to make it perfectly clear that Ronnie and I are not actually in charge here.

I do not want a showroom. I want a home that looks like people and animals genuinely live in it. There is a difference. A showroom has perfectly arranged pillows nobody touches and some decorative bowl containing six mysterious wooden beads whose purpose nobody has ever adequately explained. A real home has a blanket crumpled on the sofa because somebody was cold, a glass sitting on the nightstand, a dog asleep somewhere inconvenient, a plant dropping a leaf approximately five minutes after you cleaned, and something your husband put down “for a minute” that has apparently established permanent residency.

That is life, and lately I have wanted the surroundings of that life to feel even more like us.

The bedroom has already undergone one of the biggest transformations. Ronnie painted it this beautiful, rich dark sage, and the color completely changed the feeling of the room. Depending on the light, it shifts subtly between sage and deeper olive tones, and there is something wonderfully earthy and grounding about it. Against our dark wood bed, the green has depth and warmth without making the room feel dark or gloomy. The lighter painted brick adds another texture and keeps everything balanced, while the softer fabrics and bedding prevent the room from looking overly coordinated.

I do not want it to look like I walked into a furniture store and said, “Yes, I’ll take the Complete Sage Bedroom Experience. Throw in the decorative wooden beads.”

I want layers. I want things that look as though they found their way into our lives naturally.

The large artwork with the tree-lined path feels especially at home against all those earthy colors. There is something peaceful about that image of a path disappearing beneath enormous trees, particularly for someone who misses lush greenery as much as I do. Between the rich sage walls, dark wood, painted brick, soft bedding, and that wooded path, the bedroom feels warmer and more restful now—a place to retreat into at the end of the day.

My office is going in a different direction while still carrying some of those same colors. Instead of the deeper sage we used in the bedroom, the office will be painted a much lighter sage because I want that room to feel brighter, airy, creative, and alive.

That room has become increasingly important to me because it is not just where I work. It is where I write, where I do my diamond art, where ideas happen, and where I can disappear into some completely unnecessary research rabbit hole and emerge two hours later knowing everything there is to know about cellular shades.

I have also moved my diamond-art table near the window, which gives me better natural light and makes the space much more inviting when I want to sit down and create. The blue floral curtains already bring softness and color into the room, and I think they are going to look gorgeous against the lighter sage walls.

There is also a cat tree at the window because apparently my office comes with coworkers. They are furry, they contribute nothing toward the rent, their attendance record is questionable, and management has been unable to discipline them.

On August 11, the blue Savannah accent chair we ordered will arrive for the office, along with the matching Savannah sleeper sofa for the living room. Neither piece is here yet, so at the moment I am living in that strange decorating limbo where I can already see exactly how everything will look in my imagination while the actual rooms are standing there saying, “That’s lovely, Rae. Where’s the furniture?”

Patience has never been my favorite decorating accessory.

I am especially excited about bringing those deeper blues into the house because I do not want to retreat into beige simply because beige is supposedly safe. I like color. I want the rich sage of the bedroom, the softer sage of the office, blues in the furniture and fabrics, warm wood, botanical greens, and natural textures weaving their way through the rooms without every space looking identical.

I do not want the rooms to match. I want them to belong together.

The living room already has one of my favorite combinations of texture and life because the large window has essentially been annexed by my plants. There are plants on stands, plants reaching toward the glass, leaves overlapping leaves, and greenery stretching toward every available bit of sunlight. At this point, I am merely the property manager. The plants have claimed sovereignty.

The botanical curtains work beautifully there because the delicate branch-and-leaf pattern echoes the real plants without turning the entire room into some aggressive jungle theme. I love the combination of actual greenery against patterned fabric, warm wood beneath the plants, and sunlight filtering through all those different layers.

When the blue Savannah sleeper sofa arrives in August, I think that deeper blue will add another dimension to the room. It will also give us something practical that we have wanted: a place where someone could actually sleep if we eventually have overnight guests. Imagine that. Actual hospitality instead of handing someone a pillow, pointing vaguely toward an open patch of floor, and saying, “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The windows themselves are changing too. I ordered new curtains, sheer curtains, and cellular shades for the house, and I am probably far more excited about this than any reasonable person should be.

Until recently, I had somehow spent fifty-five years seeing sheer curtains layered behind regular curtains without ever stopping to wonder how people were actually doing it. Then I discovered double curtain rods.

Well. Look at me learning things.

The sheers are going to soften the windows and filter the light without blocking it, which matters enormously when you have a small botanical civilization depending on those windows for survival. I want privacy without shutting away all that beautiful natural light.

I originally liked the idea of wider faux-wood blinds because they have a substantial, classic look, but the more I researched cellular shades, the more sense they made for us. They can give us privacy when we need it and pull almost completely out of the way when I want maximum sunlight coming through. Naturally, I reached this decision only after researching the subject as though the fate of the republic depended on my window coverings.

I compare seventeen options, announce that I am “still thinking about it,” and then suddenly order everything. This is apparently my process.

The textures throughout the house are becoming just as important to me as the colors. I love soft sheers against more structured curtains, painted brick beside smooth sage walls, dark wood against softer fabrics, botanical prints beside living plants, quilts and rugs adding warmth, and layers of light changing everything as evening settles in.

I want things collected because we genuinely love them, not because some decorating website announced that every respectable adult is required to own the same three beige ceramic vases this year. I am not decorating by algorithm. If I love it, it belongs.

Within reason.

Ronnie may have opinions.

The hall bathroom has gotten a practical update too with the new white medicine cabinet. It has the mirrored center with open shelving along both sides, which gives us more useful storage while making the room feel fresher and more finished. It is not exactly the kind of renovation that gets dramatic music on HGTV. Nobody is going to walk into the bathroom, clutch their chest, and whisper, “My God…the toothpaste storage.”

But when you actually live in a house, practical improvements matter just as much as pretty ones.

Then there is the ferret room.

Interior design meets organized crime.

Their room has its own personality because it has to function for them first. There is the large multi-level cage, ramps, tunnels, blankets, hideaways, litter boxes, toys, the big blue rug, red curtains, and the existing red-and-cream buffalo-check covering.

The ferrets have one primary design philosophy: Can I crawl through it? Can I sleep inside it? Can I drag it somewhere it does not belong? Can I destroy it?

Excellent. We’ll take two.

We could spend thousands creating a luxury ferret suite with handcrafted cabinetry, designer bedding, custom artwork, and tiny portraits of each resident hanging above miniature fireplaces. They would ignore everything and fight over the cardboard box.

Animals are very good at keeping human beings humble.

One of the things I am enjoying most about the changes in our home, though, cannot be seen in photographs at all. It is scent.

We bought more wax for our wax melt burners, and we now have oil burners in the house too. I love how scent can completely change the atmosphere of a room without moving a single piece of furniture.

Sometimes I want the warmth of cinnamon wax drifting through the house, giving everything that cozy baked-spice feeling without requiring me to actually bake something every time I want the house to smell wonderful. Other times it might be lilac oil, soft and floral, or peach oil with its sweeter warmth. We have basil lemon wax when I want something bright and fresh, and an ocean blue scented wax melt when I want something cleaner and cooler in the air.

Then there are the deeper scents that are part of my spiritual life. Sage burns in our home, as does palo santo, while copal and frankincense burn on charcoal at the altar. Those scents are entirely different from simply making a room smell nice. There is something grounding about watching the smoke curl slowly through the air while those ancient, resinous fragrances settle into the space.

The altar does not feel separate from our home. It is part of it.

That is what my everyday version of witchy looks like. It is not about turning every room into the aftermath of a Spirit Halloween truck overturning on the interstate. Do not misunderstand me. I love Halloween. That is its own glorious situation.

But the witchiness woven through my everyday home is quieter and more personal: plants and herbs, oils and smoke, candles, ravens, Celtic influences, natural textures, old books, stones, meaningful symbols, and objects connected to nature, history, ancestry, spirituality, mythology, or simply a sense of mystery.

I do not need a sign announcing that a witch lives here.

Give people ten minutes.

They will figure it out.

All of those scents, colors, textures, and little details are what make a home something you experience rather than simply look at. It is the sage on the walls and the softness of a blanket, plants silhouetted against a window, warm wood beneath your hand, cinnamon drifting from a wax burner, the deeper smoke of copal and frankincense rising from the altar, music playing somewhere, and an animal snoring nearby without a single concern about anything happening in the world.

That is the feeling I am chasing.

Not perfection.

Atmosphere.

There are still plenty of things we want to do. We are looking at new area rugs for the office and living room, and there is still a hutch I love sitting firmly on the wish list. There is also an entertainment center with a built-in fireplace that I would love because I am apparently at the stage of life where warm ambient lighting brings me unreasonable amounts of happiness.

I accept this about myself.

Give me lamps, candles, wax burners, oil burners, and fireplace glow. Anything except the Big Light. The Big Light exists for finding a lost earring, discovering something suspicious on the floor, and interrogating prisoners.

It does not belong in a relaxing evening.

Turn it off.

The kitchen is developing its own mix of blue, yellow, and green, and I like that every room can have a slightly different personality while still sharing threads with the others. I have also thought about using a curtain to create some visual separation between the kitchen and living room when we want the living space to feel a little more enclosed and cozy.

Not permanently.

I am not establishing a border checkpoint between the sofa and refrigerator.

I simply like having options.

As we have been making all these changes, I have found myself thinking about how different our life is from where Ronnie and I started.

When we moved to Tucson in 2007, we arrived with six bags of luggage. That was essentially our life. There was no moving truck following us filled with furniture. There was no car waiting in the driveway, no house with our names on it, and no established life prepared for us.

We built from there.

Over the years, we found good jobs where we are valued, created stability, got a car, built savings, found a good landlord, and slowly filled our lives with all the things that cannot fit into six bags: animals we adore, furniture, plants, routines, memories, ordinary dinners, laughter, grief, healing, and the countless little moments that eventually become years.

Sometimes I forget how far we have come because I am busy thinking about where we might go next.

I still wonder whether Tucson is where we will stay forever. I miss green. Real green. I miss trees everywhere, grass under bare feet, rivers, lakes, ponds, and water that exists naturally without somebody having to install a pump and explain the irrigation schedule.

Sometimes I think about places like Georgia or North Carolina. Ronnie has mentioned Flagstaff, the White Mountains, or even Tombstone. There are possibilities, and I like imagining them.

Then the practical part of life strolls into the conversation carrying a clipboard.

We have eight fur babies.

Moving across the country with eight animals is not exactly a spontaneous adventure where we throw some clothes into Fiona, grab snacks, turn up the music, and see where the road takes us. It would be an operation.

There are jobs to consider, housing, finances, transportation, veterinary care, and the stress such a move would place on the animals. We also have something here that took years to build: stability. Good jobs. Savings. A good landlord. Familiar routines. A life that works.

Leaving all of that would need to be for something that genuinely made our lives better.

Maybe someday it will.

I would also love for Ronnie and me to buy a house together someday. I owned a house before, with my first husband, but Ronnie and I have never owned one together. That distinction matters to me because when I imagine us buying a house someday, I am not imagining recreating something from my past.

I am imagining something we have never had.

Our first house together.

A garden I can keep building. Walls we can paint whatever damn color we want. Trees outside the windows. Enough natural light for my increasingly aggressive plant population. A place where all the little decisions belong to us.

I hope we have that someday.

But somewhere in the middle of painting walls, ordering furniture, choosing curtains, burning wax melts, and debating cellular shades like national policy depended on it, I realized something.

I do not want to wait for someday before I fully inhabit today.

There is a strange thing that can happen when you rent. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you can start thinking, Why put too much into it? Why make it exactly what you want when you do not technically own it?

Maybe we will move. Maybe we will buy a house. Maybe we will leave Tucson.

Maybe.

But the problem with living too much inside maybe is that you can accidentally treat the present like a waiting room.

I do not want to do that anymore.

Ronnie and I wake up here. We drink coffee here. We feed our animals here. We work here, cook here, laugh here, argue here, grieve here, heal here, and fall asleep here. My plants grow toward these windows. Our animals know every corner. My altar is here. Our memories are here.

Our life is here.

We already have a home.

We just do not own the building.

Owning a house together someday would be wonderful, and I hope we get to experience it. But I am not going to treat the years between now and then as though they somehow count less.

I want to enjoy what we have built while we are living it.

I want the rich dark sage bedroom and the lighter sage office. I want blue furniture, floral curtains, botanical leaves, warm wood, soft sheers, plants crowding the windows, and rugs under our feet. I want cinnamon or lilac drifting through the rooms, sacred smoke curling above the altar, warm lamps glowing after dark, and animals sleeping wherever they damn well please.

I want friends someday who feel comfortable enough to walk through our door, sit down without asking where they are allowed to sit, drink coffee or tea, eat something, laugh too loudly, and stay longer than they intended. I want people to feel like they can exhale here.

That is what homey means to me.

Not a decorating style.

A feeling.

A home with a pulse.

Maybe someday Ronnie and I will pack everything up and carry this life somewhere greener. Maybe someday we will stand together in front of a house that belongs to both of us and hold the keys to our first home together.

I hope so.

But until that day comes, I am not waiting to live.

For now, our roots are here.

And just like the plants filling our windows, I intend to let them grow.