As an interior designer, I see my home as a place of beauty, dignity, and ease. As Jewish woman, I see my home as my prayer.
But for many years, the very concept of home was associated with trauma for me. The losing of it. The longing for it.
I was only 3 when I came to the U.S. as a refugee from Ukraine, and the immigration process was particularly difficult. In Ukraine, I lived with my grandparents, while my parents, who had me very young, went to medical school in Leningrad. My grandparents’ apartment was in one of those grey Soviet-era blocks, but it was cozy, filled with textiles on the walls and mid-century furniture sets from Poland. My parents would come back to Ukraine on school vacations.
Then, in 1977, my parents received the very coveted permission to leave the Soviet Union. At the time, not many Jews were leaving. We were ahead of the curve. But that meant leaving everything I knew behind. My grandparents. Our tight-knit family. My home. My language. The communist culture that had seeped into my flesh, even as a baby. I was so disoriented coming to America — grieving without having the words to express it.
To get through the pain, I left my body and spent 20 years dissociated. Shy. Very few friends.
Somehow, even as a child, I knew in order to heal my trauma, I had to turn to my home. My parents were busy working nonstop, while also studying for their medical boards, while also learning English. In sixth grade, I began pouring over issues of House Beautiful and interior design books at the local library, where I spent all of my time after school.
I wanted to learn to design my room as my refuge. The American culture felt so foreign to me, and I needed a space that helped me feel rooted. At 15, I was given a budget to design my teenage bedroom. Gone was the mismatched furniture that was donated to us by Jewish organizations. I decided to envelop myself with wall-to-wall grey carpet (this was the 80’s) and textured grey wallpaper. It felt like a hug. A pink lacquered Italian bedroom set completed the look.
They say your greatest wound becomes your greatest gift. In my case that is true. Because I lost my home, I see the world through the eyes of home.
As I’ve grown older, my Jewish roots have come to the fore in my understanding of what makes a home feel safe and nourishing. The Jewish mystical tradition of Kabbalah — in particular, the concept of The Tree of Life — has been a touchstone for me.
The Tree of Life diagram reveals, in essence, the interconnection between various aspects of the Divine. Although it may seem counterintuitive, the Tree of Life shows that there is a fundamental tie between Keter (the crown, the Divine in its more rarified form) and Malchut (the Divine in its most mundane, earthy expression).
I see the home as a bridge between these “high” and “low” worlds. The home is how I speak to God — in the language of the material world, through the mundane tasks I do daily.
Washing the dishes, drinking coffee, watering my plants, salting my food. Turning on the light.
Every item associated with these tasks: the sponge, the coffee cup, the watering can, the salt cellar, become pathways for me. My coffee cup is a representation of the energy I want to drink in: grounded and stable. My watering can, with its elegant neck, is an embodiment of grace. My salt cellars bring me joy.
I believe that the home becomes a temple when simple daily routines are turned into rituals. Through the things I touch daily, the small, insignificant routines that are repeated, over and over, I stay connected to myself, to the present, to my life.
Especially when the world around me feels chaotic, and I lack faith in my ability to navigate the chaos. Coming back to the divine in its most mundane, in its most essential, is the bridge to God, to myself and, ultimately, to those around me.
I believe that when you take a step towards God, God takes a step towards you. Designing what I want to weave into my life, is, in my opinion, taking a step towards God. And while the answer to trauma and spiritual loneliness isn’t found in buying things, when you bring things into your life with specific intention, it is practice in action.
In my current home, I designed the living room to be my Garden of Eden. I lie on my back on the thick rug, especially in the winter, and gaze up at the leaves of the large potted tree. It does something really good for my nervous system, like being on vacation. That's why there is no coffee table in that space – the rug makes me want to roll around on it.
This room is created for maximum softness, without being overstuffed. The daybed softens the corner and offers yet another place to lie down and nap. Everything is chosen to both ground the body and draw the eye up.
As a refugee, I’ve found that the key thing to design into my home is dignity. This is true regardless of budget or sense of style. Dignity involves acknowledging that our homes can help us meet our emotional needs, not only our physical needs. In fact, I work with my inner child through my home, by meeting my emotional needs — especially the ones that weren’t met in childhood. Where am I neglecting myself? I ask. Where am I not supporting myself? I’ve seen that this practice, of asking and responding, begins to open doors both to God and in life. Knowing how to consistently meet our own emotional needs, allows us then to reach past ourselves and do so for others.
If we believe in a world that is ordered, beautiful, and caring — our home can help reflect that truth back to us, reassuring us, helping us to fulfill our purpose with greater ease.
lance the spiritual, mental, emotional and physical worlds.
At The Well uplifts many approaches to Jewish practice. Our community draws on ancient Jewish wisdom, sometimes adapting longstanding practices to more deeply support the well-being of women and nonbinary people. See this article’s sources below. We believe Torah (sacred teachings) are always unfolding to help answer the needs of the present moment.
Olga Naiman is the author of Spatial Alchemy: Design Your Home to Transform Your Life. She has been a New York City-based magazine editor, freelance stylist, and interior designer for 25 years, and her work has been featured extensively in publications such as House Beautiful, Domino, the Washington Post, and Real Simple. Her unique approach to design, which unites the spirit, psyche, body, and home for the purpose of self-realization and transformation, is called Spatial Alchemy. She currently lives in the Hudson Valley with her partner, two children, and pet bunny.
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