I’ve been thinking recently about the aura of my home. Sometimes it feels warm and cozy, and other times as if a hurricane of Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons and running shoes has ravaged it.  There are days when clutter or not, it is just very quiet. I love the stillness when the television is off, the kettle has piped down, sports radio is muted, and we are all settled in our respective spots for the afternoon. The sun streams in through the windowpanes onto the back of the sofa, its rays gently caressing pudgy cat asleep on the radiator. A few feet away, light snoring rises from the ground as the redhead basset dreams of juicy steaks and wide grassy fields.

Así me gusta a mí. That was the name of a fantastic dance song from my youth (also featured in Penélope Cruz’s breakout film “Jamón, Jamón”). And well, that is how I like it – peaceful, low murmurs, gentle gradual movements. Now when the house and its members are actively engaged in the business of living, I am easily ruffled: treadmill spinning, doors opening, hurried footsteps up and down wooden stairs, greedy lapping of water from bowls, shower jets roaring, and so much more.

But the rare occasions when the house and I can carve out our time to just be, are when I am at my best. I like to slip into a satin kimono robe to really get the ambience going. I sit in a grey armchair, taking the time to place its matching ottoman in front of me for my tired legs. A cup of warm cucumber white tea is waiting on one side of me, and a tall glass of lemony water on the other; that is how you erase the memory of the chocolate chocolate chip muffin and three coffees from the morning. I hear the floorboards creak every so often. And not much else.

Now that dance song from my youth was truthfully about drugs. And big electronic dance music parties (before they were called that) in rundown warehouses, or on neglected expanses of beaches, or in open fields at the edges of towns around the world. And all of that me gusta. Mucho. I often feel my truest self when I am surrounded by that loud bass thumping. Minus the drugs of course, heaven forbid.

And so it is the house and I agree that some afternoons are for silent rejoicing, where we remain observant, gleefully setting aside most external stimulants, and just keeping our mouths shut for a few hours.   And other afternoons, heading into early evenings, should throb with a little drum and bass, the pitter patter of animal children demanding dinner, and the clinking sounds of someone fixing a cocktail. Así me gusta a mí. Also.