The house that remembers me

This house was never meant to be anything special.
It was built to be a family home, just like so many others.

But over the years, it became something else. Not grand. Not curated. Just quietly mine.
The objects I chose to live with… the art, the books, the music, they carry things I rarely say out loud. Not to impress, but to remind. They hold moments, connections, versions of me that most people will never know.

Nothing here is mere decoration. Each photograph, painting, and frame holds a pulse. These walls do not just carry echoes. They carry me.

The framed line drawing by Lee Zimmermann reads: “She is quite strange, and even though she is beautiful, she doesn’t seem to fit anywhere. And I can’t stop thinking about her.”

It hangs in the guest bathroom, not for visitors to understand, but for me to be reminded: I do not need to fit. I just need to feel. This woman, strange and beautiful, is how I often see myself. The piece was redrawn just for me after I missed the original by five minutes. And somehow, it is more mine this way. Imperfect timing becoming perfect resonance.

A photograph by Josh Bulriss titled “Let Me In.” I bought it in 2012 and asked him not to reprint it. Whether he honours that, I do not know. But in my world, it is unique. Infinite doorways fading into light. It has always mirrored how I move through life. Threshold after threshold. Never quite arriving. Never stopping. Always becoming. It hangs in my kitchen. There are not many windows there, and I spend a lot of time in that space. This picture found its place with ease.

Daniel Cavanagh’s handwritten lyric sheet is framed near my reading nook. Lyrics to a song called “Everything” from his band Anathema. I bought it during a crowdfunding campaign in 2015. One red line at the bottom is what made me reach out to him. That line opened something I had not expected. I return to it when I forget who I am, because those lyrics matter.

There is also a piece drawn by Adam Weikert (Weikie). He was a big part of that night in Brussels in 2014 I mentioned before. That night, I was not a mother or a wife. I was just Cathy. Just me. This skyline, smoky and abstract, pulled me in the moment I saw it. I try to support Adam and his art, his music. But I am pretty sure I missed this or that project. Still, this one found me.

One of my favourite pieces, though, is the abstract one with the bleeding red, right next to it. It does not try to be beautiful. It does not resolve anything. It drips and blurs and hints at violence. And yet, I love it. Because that is what life often feels like. Unfinished. Bleeding. Real. It is a painting by Josh Bulriss, and time and time again, I stand in front of it, lost. I see a face, an eye, crying. I interpret the red as the mouth. Whenever I say this to people, they do not see it.

The hallway is lined with books and music. Every CD I ever bought is still with me. Every book has been read. This is not a curated collection. It is a lived one. These shelves are the record of every emotion I could not explain. These songs and words raised me, held me, challenged me, saved me.

There is no order. There is no need for one.

This house is a lot like me. Quiet on the outside. Vivid inside. Colourful. Lived in. A place that holds hope even when it hurts. A place that remembers the version of me I sometimes forget. The one who chose all this. Who felt it all. Who never gave up on meaning.

This is not a house meant to impress.
It is a place that speaks my language.
It shows you who I am, even though I rarely say much.
If you step through my front door, you will find warmth, honesty, love, acceptance.
Art and music in every corner. Clutter that matters.
Not everything will make sense to you. But it makes sense to me.