City Lights
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, The Day Dream, 1880
From my study’s window, I can see the city lights, stretching over Carmel mountain, sparkling silver and yellow. I love the view. Over the past year and a half t’s become familiar and comforting. Most days I don’t even miss my childhood landscapes of open fields, wild animals and thick woods.
I live in this apartment in the city with my husband and our dog. It’s the third place we share, but the first that is truly ours. It’s home.
Every day, the apartment is taking a larger place in my heart. I wash the floors, scrub the windows and grow plants in the porch, and as I do that, I’m falling more in love with the place. Somehow, it seems to love me right back. I’m happy here, and I used to think I’d never be happy in an 18-storey apartment building in the city.
Originally, I’m from the country. I grew up in a village, and lived there most of my life. I’m used to different things, like wide horizons, quiet, clean air, not sharing walls with neighbors, and growing food in the garden. None of these can be found here. The city is noisy, polluted, over-populated and hectic.
But the city also has a secret. It is built on a mountain, by the sea, at the heart of a forest, and if I listen carefully to the wind, or watch the trees with care, I can hear the spirit of the forest speaking to me. I can sense the presence of the mountain. I can
I probably like the city because of the forest. It is so powerful that I forgive the city its urban sins.
Also, my home is here. This apartment with its butter walls, white tiles and small porch with potted plants. My husband comes back here every day. The dog finds his way to the door through giant staircases and elevators. This is where I sit on the green armchair, meditating in the open air. Here I rest my head at night. Here I’m loved, and I love: in this apartment, in this city, with its urban sins and the yellow lights that I can see from the study’s window.
Mirrored from Housewifing.
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