I am not sure I’ve always appreciated my bed.

I have always loved to sleep and nap, but being in my bed, awake, is not something I used to do until I was recently told by a doctor to stay put. When you are forced to stay in bed, it becomes a place.

A place to read, a place to chat, a place for bedside tea and candles. I spent several weeks in bed. Long enough to notice the lines in my favorite quilt, which pillows are sleeping, and which ones prop up the best. Extra throw blankets here and there gave my bed texture and warmth.

The grain of wood on my bed is worn to interesting, and my sheets are a luxury. I was in pain in my bed, then I got better, and then I realized something.

Beds are not only for sleeping. They can be safety and comfort. Places where we can be our most intimate, cozy, and weakened selves. It’s no surprise that Jack already knew this bit of wisdom. He goes to our bed when he’s overstimulated, or a stranger is at the door. He loves to venture out more than anything, except maybe his bed.

My thoughts from the laundry room. Resting.

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