Dear Otea:

Every room in my house is perfectly styled, but somehow it still doesn’t feel like a home. What emotional ingredients am I missing in my design choices?

Cara Mia:

I know this might feel a bit macabre at first, but I need you to begin by beholding your own flesh. Step closer to the mirror in the full-length light of day. And look for the you that exists only in this time and this space. The one who is here and then gone, gone, gone.

This is the you whose lipstick is smeared after a feast drenched in olive oil. The you whose buttons are undone after an afternoon delight. The you who is askew and led astray. To the place where there are no perfect coiffures or curated color palettes, but only the wind and the rain and the sun caught in your hair that cannot stop growing.

Undo it, my love. The arrangement on the mantle that sits frozen like a cluster of crematory vessels at the morgue. The plumped pillows in their tidy row who are living in fear of the crush of life’s heavy caress. The level line that keeps the frame from falling with the grace of god-given gravity.

Welcome the cut flowers that compost before your eyes. The brass platter that tarnishes with each scraped serving of sweetness. The fabric that fades from all this light that you’re living in.


Your home is the place that welcomes the you who is changing and aging and yes, even decaying. And the you who is flying in the very face of your own dying.


Un abbraccio forte,

Otea