holes in my walls

It has been nine months since I moved into my little house.

It's been a labor of love (and has required a boat load of check-writing) to get things in their right place. To get a couple of new furniture pieces. To allow my new space to settle, to be broken in. 

This ongoing process has been painfully stunted by this paralyzing inability to put holes in my walls.

What if I don't like this piece, in this spot? Then what?

I'm not sold on this furniture arrangement, so all wall hangings are on hold.

I'm not sure I love this piece of artwork enough to make it so permanent.

(Like it's art-gallery quality. Please.)

No one will want to buy this house if it's got holes everywhere.

Nine months! Ridiculous.

I am cautious by nature, but at some point, I have to learn to just put holes in my walls.

They're not permanent.

I'm not nesting for future buyers of my home.

This is where I live my life for pity's sake.

So this past weekend, this blank wall ...

... became this wall with purpose.

I'm quite pleased.

Instead of an empty wall staring at me blankly every morning when I go down my stairs, I'm now greeted by the people who make my world full.

My stairwell and I are both much happier, with a lot of holes in our walls.