dazzling and interesting on a shoestring
in the yard.
But I don’t.
We live in an apartment building in the middle of a built-up suburbs that borders on a small city. We live in a neighborhood made for yuppies, not homesteaders. My kids roam our balcony and walk to the ice cream place. My husband rides his bike to work, and the closest thing we have to a pet are siblings and half a dozen musical instruments. We rent instead of renovate. I have to swipe my debit card to do laundry instead of hanging it out on the line to dry in the sun. I try not to daydream of organic garden beds, and instead we shop at the farmers market. Maybe I’ll put potted herbs on the balcony come springtime.
I long to write books at my desk in my study and stare out the window at the kids playing on the back forty, but I may have to content myself with the laptop on the couch and wondering at the guy sunbathing at the apartment complex pool in the middle of January. At least that will be better fodder for novels. Or perhaps I could start with simply cleaning off my desk, and enjoy the luscious potted plant that sits on the attached bookcase.
Like just about everybody else on God’s green/brown/icy/grey earth, I have to be content with what I’ve got—and I’ve got A LOT.
I have a family that is learning to love each other unconditionally, two babies that are learning to move and communicate, three kids and a husband who love food, cooking, baking, chocolate, fresh pears and the smell of cinnamon.
I have matching vintage green velvet chairs and a love seat that we worked hard to find and bargain for, and an extensive wardrobe full of adventures and memories.
This New Year, I’m going to strive for contentedness, and next month for Valentine’s Day, I’m going to fill it with more love.
I know, Fiest already sang it here, but…