I live a small life.
Small enough that in 6 months, I don't do enough driving to warrant an oil change. Small enough that I still have the jeans and shirt that I wore on that first date with my husband 9 years ago hanging in the single closet that we share. (I have the shoes too I'm pretty sure.) We have a lot of pictures of places here and there, but not enough to fill my hard drive. All that travel I dreamed about has been put on the back-burner, not forever, but for now. These days I dream of living in a house with more storage space.
I get glimpses of the larger world. I read the news. Pop-culture is a guilty pleasure. That bustle of feet on a busy city sidewalk sort of fills me up and excites me on the rare occassions I experience it. I long for more culture. More art fairs and farmer's markets to inspire me. Book signings. I wish I lived in a place with public transit where my kids could know the thrill of riding on an underground train and how that simple yet complicated process means you get to walk more and drive less. I don't like crowds, but I like people. I like to see the telling perspective that a random woman's jacket might relate. Growing up in a small town, this is the sort of thing I've had to search out. This part of me feels restless, mostly when it's quiet.
Interesting though, that quiet doesn't visit me often because I live a loud life.
Loud enough that I worry that the dog will wake the baby as he clip-clop-gallops down the hallway when the mail arrives. Loud enough to hear the Number of the Day as related by a furry monster on Sesame Street, while I'm in the shower. Loud enough that all is quiet until I get on the phone and all hell breaks loose around me. (All kids know that trick.) Not so loud that I can't hear the wind come in the window and rattle the art work that hangs on my refrigerator.
I live a small life.
Small enough to pick flowers from my own yard and set them out in dishes from the kitchen. Small enough to fit both kids in the backseat where I can hear them talk and sing and poke each other. It's small enough that the purse I carry is sort of ugly and cost $12, but inside it holds all the stuff I need. Small enough that my heart fills up when we take out the photo albums filled with pictures taken mostly in the backyard. So small that that thrill ride on the Subway will be my child's vacation memory rather than a way of life. Small, but just big enough that we have a front step on which rests a flower pot, a pumpkin, and a rock collection.
Interestingly enough, that pumpkin has a face. It's smiling.
