One of my very best friends is coming to visit tomorrow from New York, and I’m so excited. Our major plans are to talk nonstop and eat good food, so: it’ll be perfect.
This week as I was preparing for her visit, I did all the things one does when a guest is coming: I cleaned my house: dusted, vacuumed, wiped. I took the time to put things back where they belong, neatly stored away. I took out the garbage and recycling that had been piling up. I’m kind of on a decluttering kick lately, so I did a hearty dose of that too.
I also bought fruit to fill my pretty fruit bowl. I got tonic water for us to make fancy sparkly drinks with, and wine for us to catch up over. I bought the good kind of ketchup chips (seriously: take them away from me), and the kimchi I hadn’t replaced since I finished the last jar.
I also made plans with people I loved for while she’s here: my sister (we all travelled in Thailand together!), Dylan (we lived in Korea together!), as well as some friends who she hasn’t met yet but who are close to my heart.
And I am so excited. I am so happy that I’ll get to spend time with her, and show her my neighbourhood, and my apartment, and my cat. I did all of the above because I want her to feel so, so welcome in my little world. I want her to have the best experience possible. I want her to feel at home.
But here’s the thing – the thing that feels almost blasphemous to admit – I also want those things for myself too. I want to feel welcome in my world. I want myself to have the best experience possible. I want to feel at home in my home. I want this for everyone I love (and even those I don’t), and I want it for me too.
When I came home today, my apartment felt so fresh and welcoming and cozy to me. I thought to myself, “I should do this more often!”
And now that I’ve noticed it, I think I will.