I want a little life.

I want a slow life. A simple life. A contemplative one.

I want a life of warmth — depth — and dimension.

I want a wall of books and rooms full of tiny feet and hands making, rummaging, creating.

I want romance and ritual. I want love and LIFE.

All of it.

I want to live.

I want to live, unencumbered. Unencumbered by expectations, calculations, and estimations.

I want to hold my kids’ hands as they stroll down the mossy sidewalk.

I want to pedal alongside them and witness the wind blow through their blonde hair.

I want a house to hold their friendships, their secrets, their sadness, their joy.

I want french toast on Fridays and strawberry jam on Sundays.

I want fabrics and futures woven with comfort and connection.

I want porch nights and fireflies and moon tea and meadows.

I want cupboards of ceramics and closets of color.

Texture.

Depth.

Dimension.

I want dinner with old friends cross-legged on the floor.

I want car rides and car pools and laughter so loud it sounds like a roar.

I want board games and bored games and blanket forts, too.

I want farmer’s markets, recitals, bonfires, and best friends’ kids asleep in the living room.

I want paintings and drawings and art everywhere.

I want skylights and wood beams and sun streaming in.

I want wisdom and health and a heart that knows peace.

I want soups, stews, broths, canning, collecting, coffee on my porch.

I want a little life — a big life — and a life so mundane that I never get tempted to live life in vain.

I want ordinary magic — extraordinary days — like braiding my daughter’s hair before we part ways.

I want warmth.

I want love.

And I want it to steep. To seep.

Into my bones. Into the deep.

I want to drink my life like water, so 90 or 100 year old me can smile and say, “ah, yes — those were the days.”