I remember when Sundays were languid. When the gentle light of morning was what woke me and the softness of sheets was what kept me. When thoughts were unconnected while a lazy foot sought out a cool spot to enjoy just outside the sheets – and then sought another when that one no longer soothed.
Hair spread on pillows, sheets in tangles, duvet strategically placed for precise temperature control, Sundays were for magazines, books, tank tops and lists.
In the past, my beds have been filled with color and pattern. Bold. A statement.
Not this time, not this next house.
This time, a perpetual Sunday. This time, a visual exhale. An island of simplicity, softness, and sanity. An altar of clarity, a fresh embrace. Elegantly crisp and classic, or wickedly rumpled, I’m designing this room from the bed outward for unhurried stretches, cold winter mornings, warm summer nights, ponytails, hot chocolate or lemon water, long eyelashes, dogeared journals, and the luxury of casual.
This time, white.