How to Create A Home

I was describing my new apartment to one of my coworkers when he said, quite poetically, "You have an apartment, but not a home." He was right—I was in the middle stages, in that I had a key, I had a lease, and there were half-opened suitcases scattered about my room, but I didn't have any furniture, I didn't have a bed, or even hangars.

I very much was in the process of creating a home.

Moving, had I decided to move my furniture from Texas to New York City, would have been one of the most expensive things I'd done in my entire life, coming in third after college tuition and putting down money to secure an apartment. But I decided not to move my furniture and instead buy new furniture. It was an option that still cost me a lot of money and no small amount of distress.

There's a certain comfort in the things that you grew up with. My rose-covered comforter, the pink ottoman that was a gift from my father, the Japanese side table my grandmother left to me. Things that I loved to see in my room and things that unfortunately will now stay in my mother's house for—most likely—another five years. These things weren't worth the thousand dollars it would cost to move them up here, but at the same time, didn't I deserve to have the things I loved, the things that made me feel at home in the place that was going to become my new home?

In the end, I decided the answer was no. I bought furniture, shipped up the art supplies and extra clothes and books that I truly needed, and resigned myself to not having those few, sentimental items. The truth is, I've never been very sentimental anyways. I'm not sure if this made my decision easier—I've always been able to live without my sentimental baggage—or harder—I love these items in a way that is incredibly rare for me. But in the end, I'll make a home somehow.

Before this, if you'd asked me what home meant, I probably would have said I could make a home most places. That would be technically true. I was pretty minimalist inn college, packing nothing but photos as proof that I had any sentimental feelings at all. So I have no doubt that I'll be able to live and thrive with whatever new things I buy. But I've never been much of a hoarder, so without furniture, I have very few personal effects—no playbills or movie tickets or journals or concert t-shirts.

If you Google "what makes a home," of course the first thing that comes up is "home is where the heart is." My furniture wasn't my heart. The furniture was a crutch, actually. I thought it would make my apartment a home. Sure, it helps aesthetically, which is important to me as a graphic designer. But my home being right out of an HGTV episode is unnecessary when what I'm really looking for in "home" is a feeling. The feeling I get when I lie in bed and read a book, the feeling I get when I run to the store with a friend to get ice cream late at night.

It's not about the furniture, it's about comfort. If comfort is being able to find a restaurant that sells you breakfast tacos, or comfort is having the fluffiest comforter, or comfort is never having to hear your neighbors have wild parties, than that makes it home. For me, crafting a home will most likely include choosing a beautiful comforter, a set-up that makes it easy to play video games, and absolutely will include setting up a very organized arts and crafts drawer. It will also be the place where I wear ugly pajamas, and eat chips and cheese for dinner instead of cooking.

I still don't know if my new apartment will become home. I hope it will, as I hope to be here for several years, but I just don't know yet. But it won't be the furniture that makes or breaks this apartment. It’ll be what I bring to the apartment that’s important to me, not just the HGTV ready interior decor.

Who is Windrose for?

These are words for those who are wandering and wondering through the open spaces of young adulthood, words for those navigating the unchartered seas of a life all your own. Whether starting a new job or investing more in your current one, moving to a new city or creating a home where you already are, making new friends or feeling the loss of your old ones, booking that trip to Europe or only staring at a calendar void of vacation days, Windrose is for YOU.

Where do you ship?

We can only ship within the United States. Sorry to our international friends! We still love you! But you can still get your digital copy of Windrose!

When can I expect to receive my copy of Windrose?

You can expect to receive your Windrose copy (or copies... order more than one!) by mid-to-late October. We will update you if this changes.

How will you be shipping these magazines?

We will be mailing your magazine via United States Postal Service. You will receive a tracking number once your magazine has been shipped.

Anything else I should know?

No returns; all sales final.

Featured

The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

Life, StyleClaire TorresAugust 29, 2017FeaturedComment