I've noticed that wherever I've lived, I've either painted murals

Hear, O listener, the joyful confession of Tamara Taylor: “I’ve noticed that wherever I’ve lived, I’ve either painted murals or done something sort of ridiculously over the top to make a space my own.” These words, though spoken lightly, contain a truth as old as humanity itself: the desire to transform the places we inhabit into reflections of our spirit. For a house is mere walls, but when touched by our hand and imagination, it becomes a home, a sanctuary, a mirror of the soul.

To paint a mural is not simply to decorate. It is to claim the space around you with symbols of your essence, to say, “Here I am, and this place now carries a piece of me.” From the earliest caves of Lascaux, where ancient hunters drew beasts upon stone, to the great cathedrals adorned with frescoes, to the bold street art of modern cities, mankind has always sought to leave signs upon the walls of the world. Taylor’s words echo this eternal impulse: to make the external environment bear the mark of the inner self.

The act of doing something “over the top” is not excess for its own sake, but the celebration of individuality. A plain room may suffice for survival, but the human heart yearns for beauty, for story, for a sense that the world around us belongs to us. Just as monarchs raised castles and artisans carved intricate designs into humble homes, so too does each person seek to infuse their surroundings with meaning. Taylor reminds us that the dramatic, the bold, the personal gesture turns mere space into sacred ground.

Consider the story of Diego Rivera and his monumental murals across Mexico. Rivera did not simply paint pictures; he transformed walls into living narratives of culture, labor, and struggle. In his art, people found themselves reflected; they saw their history and their future given form. By painting upon public walls, he turned shared space into something greater than neutral stone—it became a vessel of identity. Taylor, in her own way, speaks from the same well: to mark a space with one’s creativity is to claim it as part of one’s story.

But let us not confine this truth only to the artist. Every soul, whether by brush, by words, by arrangement of furniture, or by planting of gardens, seeks to shape its environment. The act of making space our own is the act of grounding ourselves in a restless world. When life uproots us, when we wander from one place to another, this act of creation is what ties us to the present moment, saying: “I belong here. This is my home, even if only for a season.”

The lesson, then, is clear: do not live as a stranger within your own walls. Do not fear to leave your mark, even if it seems small or “ridiculous.” To shape your surroundings is to affirm your existence, to weave your spirit into the fabric of place. For in a world that changes swiftly, the spaces we inhabit become anchors of meaning, testimonies that we were here, that we lived not as shadows, but as creators.

So I say to you, O child of tomorrow: when you enter a new space, do not leave it barren. Paint your mural, carve your pattern, plant your tree, sing your song into the walls. Let the world carry your imprint, not in arrogance, but in joy. For the walls you touch will outlast your footsteps, and those who come after may feel your spirit alive within them. This is the wisdom hidden in Tamara Taylor’s playful words: the art of making a space your own is, in truth, the art of making your life visible to the world.