The last time I had rearranged my apartment, I threw out my back in my foolish attempt to move my furniture on my own.
Ok, I'll admit, some things didn't change. I still moved the furniture on my own, but at least I didn't throw out my back. (But if you ask the worship team, I was very sore on Sunday morning. Blarg.)
I don't know why, but this particular change had opened my heart. I moved the couches around, made the TV less of the focus of the room, and moved my music out from the boxes and placed them on what was once my entertainment center. (Yes, I kept the TV--it's just on a less prominent place in the living room. And yes, I still am looking for a piano). I collected all my books from the numerous random piles throughout my apartment and placed them on the bookshelf where they belonged. And all that I have written is within reach.
It was freedom. And for the first time in a long time since I moved out on my own, it felt like it was my home and not just a place where I slept.
My life was no longer hidden in corners of my apartment; it was out in the open.
If my home is a metaphor of my heart, I feel like this sudden, and albeit manic, rearrangement of my apartment may be a step in the right direction in revealing who I really am.
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