When my sister visited me last month, she decorated my room. L and I have historically had a competitive relationship, so it’s tough on both of us to admit to liking something the other has or does. At Christmas I grudgingly admitted that I admire her interior design skills, the way she uses color to bring life and light to her apartment. Her home is so busy with pretty things and splashes of color, and it all works. L promptly started collecting things for me, like a friendly magpie—every little shiny colorful thing that reminded her of me, she bought. She landed in Korea with a suitcase worth of treasures.
Do you know, decorating a home is something that scares me. It feels so revealing and intimate, to say, this is me. This is what I like, these are the colors and things that I like and am drawn to. I told L that my creativity is mostly expressed through words, but I really wanted a home to love, to express myself in. I wanted a home that shows what I value, a place where I feel happy and comfortable, that welcomes other people, too. I wanted it to smell good and inviting. I wanted there to be books and blankets and rugs and curtains and pretty dishes. I wanted it to have art on the wall, and pictures of my friends and family, and I wanted it to feel like me.
We weren’t at my home much while L visited, because we got a larger place to stay together. All week we were in and out, treating my home as an air-conditioned dog house, cosplaying as people with a second home. Then it was Thursday night, and we’d booked a hotel in Seoul but weren't ready to leave Busan. We decided to crash at my place; four adults and a pup in a single room, what could go wrong? It was an accident that led us there, to sitting on the floor of the tiny room and start opening suitcases.
Shall I start? My sister asked. Go for it. I surrendered to my sister’s expertise with an ease that surprised both of us. She tasked me with digging through my boxes for more treasures, for scavenged materials to hand over to the magpie. Then I sat back and watched the electric confidence of someone doing something they are very good at, something they know they can do. Before our dazzled eyes, she unfurled beauty across the wall like it was already clear in her mind. Her hands were fast and fearless, her instincts bold and accurate, her mood engaged yet free. She was so clearly an artist at play, in the zone, and it felt like enough of a gift to see her in this new way. But then—the wall—it is so beautiful.
We were meant to be gone already, but instead we stole this night for ourselves, to pillage old memory boxes and newly arrived souvenirs from America, to spread them, nostalgia and memories and all, across the walls of my home. By late that night I was drunk from watching, buzzed from the art show, and dazzled by the vulnerability blooming in my chest. It is after all, my home, a sacred space, and it was now covered with things. Things that I like, things that I think are beautiful or at least my sister does (is there a meaningful difference) and to see so much evidence of myself left me feeling a little queasy. Kind of like this newsletter if I think about it very much. Like the privacy of my taste has been exposed, like I am offering something that if I think about too much I may want to keep, instead.
Before my room had been cozy but void of personality, like a hotel room. It didn’t say anything, except that I’m private and reserved and not much inclined to expose vulnerability, maybe. Now the room has a point-of-view. Not exactly my point-of-view, but it offers something else. A glimpse into the way my sister sees the world, sees white walls, sees me. As possibilities, as let’s just try it, what do you think? Go fast instead of slow, you can fix what doesn’t work in the edit, trust yourself, there are no mistakes, action is the cure for fear, action has magic and power in it.
I love the wall. I love my home. But mostly I love that I got to watch L conjure beauty like a magic trick, leaving her work displayed behind her like a busy spider. It was as if she reached down into a river and pulled out the most beautiful things she could find and waded back to shore, her dripping cupped hands full of brightly colored fish, and let me keep them.
Last year H sent me a poem that is so dear to me. It’s “Ode to My Sister,” by Sharon Olds:
I think if the god had known
how to
take my curly hair from my head,
she would have. And I think there was
nothing my sister
wanted to take from me.
Thanks for reading! I love you, L. XOXO Angie
This is so beautiful and such a love letter to L. 😭💜
So beautifully written!💛💖