We’re completely moved out of our house. In a couple hours, another family will turn a key, open the heavy blue door, and begin carrying their boxes and furniture inside. Our house is now their home. Strange, but wonderful.
A cool breeze and sunny skies provide a little everyday magic. Standing by the kitchen window, making coffee this morning, I felt myself fall gently back in time to the day I moved into my first apartment, a day dull of hope, freedom, and possibilities. It was a gorgeous autumn afternoon.
Twenty one years later, I feel that promise, liberation, rightness. Unlike my first paces into adulthood, when I naively expected it all to just work out somehow, I’ve had two decades to fail, stumble, and figure out what works, where I want to focus my energy, and how I wish the hours of each day to unfold.
I wish to be surrounded by loved ones, not stuff. I care for a simple living space rather than more space to manage. I want to spend a lot of time outdoors with my family, even for a simple picnic at the wooden table beside our camper. And something I can’t quite explain – hours painted like water color.