Many of you have probably already heard the tale of our freecycle bed. It’s a queen sized Ethan Allen, cherry wood, four poster canopy bed. It’s a bed for people have who live in 2-story, 5 bedroom homes with a double garage. It’s not really the type of bed that ‘fits’ in our 750 sq ft apartment (yep, you read that sq footage number correctly, there are no missing digits there). Yet, it’s an extravagance that I’ve justified because of the joy that it brings.
Our bed is the safest place in the world to me. It’s so high that I have to vault into it (yah, the travails of one-legged leaping into a ridiculously tall Victorian style bed). But when I’m nestled it, with its canopy of pale peach silk (gifted in a bag of misc fabric remnants from friend Carole), the world is shut out and I am in my perfectly safe space, like a cocoon. Hanging from the canopy edge is a string of multicolored lanterns, whose soft glow is just bright enough to read by, but just dim enough to soothe (or snooze, as often happens).
It seems apt that John and I have taken to recording our podcasts while in bed. There’s nothing kinky about it–it’s the most sheltered space in the house. The sounds of our voices don’t reverberate around in the bed–they are muffled by the draperies and the wall along the backside. Last night when we recorded our latest ‘cast, I reclined on my belly, foot in the air, totally relaxed in my coziest PJs as I told the story of our changing marriage relationship.
When I am tired or discouraged, I retreat to this bed, where I can nap or lie and dream for awhile. John and I have our best conversations in this bed. Where nothing else can distract and we are completely focused on each other. Our bed, this space, is both haven and heaven.