why can't......
I was thinking today about my perfect life: a little fantasy of mine.
I live on an organic farm. It's a small little farm house, turn-of-the-century style, white. The front lawn is an expanse of natural prairie, in the east is an orchard of apples, pears, plums, and apricots; the raspberry patch is to the north of it. Along the northern edge of the property is a windblock of pines and poplars. Between this and the house are the gardens, and they extend to the western half of the property. Some of them are raised beds, some are not, depending on what's planted. There is a wide variety of vegetables. Closer to the house are the strawberry beds, and on the opposite side, between the garden and windblock, are the blueberry patches. Surrounding the house is a barrier of china berry trees, lilacs, bird berry bushes, and crabapple trees. Flower beds surround the house. Bridal's wreath edges the driveway, leading up to a huge silver maple that caps the hill.
The house is white, but the inside are soft shades of sea greens, peach, sky blue, butter yellow, and salmon pink. There is an old, worn in feeling about the house and it's constituents. The house is full of books and cups, ortiental rugs, and vestiges of knowledge. It always smells like a perfume of baking and incense: heavy, warm, comforting. The rooms are big. The living room is on the south side of the house with huge windows to let in the sun. The kitchen is on the north side. There are four bedrooms, one of which is used as an art studio. The attic is used for storage, but has been insulated for musical endeavors. There is a large pantry off the kitchen that has a trap door that leads to a cellar. This is where all the canning is kept, along with it's tools.
I am married. He looks like a Norwegian lumberjack, a little red in his blonde beard, and has a kind and curious soul. His hands are large and calloused; his eyes are deep and light blue, full of sky. He chuckles often and is very dexterious and productive. He wears the flannel shirts I make him and loves peach pie and Hemingway. We both work on the farm full time, and in the evening we retire to our hobbies, sitting by a fire in the winter, and out on the porch to watch the sun set in the summer. Our farm is not only a source of life and pleasure, but of business, too. We sell the produce to restaurants and grocery stores, and barter with farmers around us. We also sell the products of our hands: knit things, wings, wooden whistles and ocaras, tool handles, baskets, and small furniture.
Our life is slow and rewarding. We are simple in our physical wants, and always intellectually thirsty. We take the time to savor. Our relationship has its share of ups and downs, but we try our best to understand. We are best friends. I am sometimes a perfectionist and get burdened in detail, and become anxious. He reminds me that not everything is perfect, but it is still great. He sometimes is impatient and has a quick temper, and is quick to act. I point out that you can't force it, and waiting makes it better.
There is love love love in everything.
In this fantasy, we have no children yet, but we plan for when we are ready. We are still young. We are still indulgent and silly in our youth, but these ways are dissipating quickly. We still retain childhood hearts, but wisened heads. We are people of the earth, of our hands, of our heads, of our hearts, because we know how it all connects.
This is a little.....lovedovey and a bit ideal. But shouldn't we all be happy? Suffering is unnecessary to be successful. And in that way, we are not really successful if we must deny parts of our selves to do so. Happiness comes from being whole.
I live on an organic farm. It's a small little farm house, turn-of-the-century style, white. The front lawn is an expanse of natural prairie, in the east is an orchard of apples, pears, plums, and apricots; the raspberry patch is to the north of it. Along the northern edge of the property is a windblock of pines and poplars. Between this and the house are the gardens, and they extend to the western half of the property. Some of them are raised beds, some are not, depending on what's planted. There is a wide variety of vegetables. Closer to the house are the strawberry beds, and on the opposite side, between the garden and windblock, are the blueberry patches. Surrounding the house is a barrier of china berry trees, lilacs, bird berry bushes, and crabapple trees. Flower beds surround the house. Bridal's wreath edges the driveway, leading up to a huge silver maple that caps the hill.
The house is white, but the inside are soft shades of sea greens, peach, sky blue, butter yellow, and salmon pink. There is an old, worn in feeling about the house and it's constituents. The house is full of books and cups, ortiental rugs, and vestiges of knowledge. It always smells like a perfume of baking and incense: heavy, warm, comforting. The rooms are big. The living room is on the south side of the house with huge windows to let in the sun. The kitchen is on the north side. There are four bedrooms, one of which is used as an art studio. The attic is used for storage, but has been insulated for musical endeavors. There is a large pantry off the kitchen that has a trap door that leads to a cellar. This is where all the canning is kept, along with it's tools.
I am married. He looks like a Norwegian lumberjack, a little red in his blonde beard, and has a kind and curious soul. His hands are large and calloused; his eyes are deep and light blue, full of sky. He chuckles often and is very dexterious and productive. He wears the flannel shirts I make him and loves peach pie and Hemingway. We both work on the farm full time, and in the evening we retire to our hobbies, sitting by a fire in the winter, and out on the porch to watch the sun set in the summer. Our farm is not only a source of life and pleasure, but of business, too. We sell the produce to restaurants and grocery stores, and barter with farmers around us. We also sell the products of our hands: knit things, wings, wooden whistles and ocaras, tool handles, baskets, and small furniture.
Our life is slow and rewarding. We are simple in our physical wants, and always intellectually thirsty. We take the time to savor. Our relationship has its share of ups and downs, but we try our best to understand. We are best friends. I am sometimes a perfectionist and get burdened in detail, and become anxious. He reminds me that not everything is perfect, but it is still great. He sometimes is impatient and has a quick temper, and is quick to act. I point out that you can't force it, and waiting makes it better.
There is love love love in everything.
In this fantasy, we have no children yet, but we plan for when we are ready. We are still young. We are still indulgent and silly in our youth, but these ways are dissipating quickly. We still retain childhood hearts, but wisened heads. We are people of the earth, of our hands, of our heads, of our hearts, because we know how it all connects.
This is a little.....lovedovey and a bit ideal. But shouldn't we all be happy? Suffering is unnecessary to be successful. And in that way, we are not really successful if we must deny parts of our selves to do so. Happiness comes from being whole.