Simplicity

An unbearable ache for an era long gone.

It's not a question that I only consider once in a blue moon. It is a certainty- a conviction rather than a question. With each passing day, I struggle to understand how it's possible that I was born in the wrong era.

I've never wanted anything more than simplicity. A simple life. One without a mansion or foreign cars. Material things have never meant much to me. I dream of a place to settle and call home. A small cottage, much like the one in Snow White. Seclusion. French doors that open to a cobblestone patio, baskets of trailing Twinspur swaying gently from the overhang. Long stemmed red roses- the same kind I carried on my wedding day- perfectly arranged in a vase sat center on a wrought iron table. Canna standing proudly erect in the Suns warmth, their golden-speckled petals inviting the hummingbirds to quench their thirst.

I want endless blooms- cut-flowers, wildflowers, a sanctuary for pollinators. Gardens where we grow our own sustenance, nurturing both Earth and self. In morning, I would open my windows, inviting in the sweet scent of awakening that surrounds me- Mother Earth's potpourri. And as I'd kiss my son goodbye each morning, I'd open my mouth to say, "Have a great day." and the earthy dew of fresh morning would lightly settle on my tongue, washing away the bitter remains of the Columbian roast I'd have indulged just moments before.

In this simple dream I so desperately need, nature couldn't possibly be muted by the deafening sounds of the city. The birds would be free to sing the tunes their hearts desire, and the trees could whistle the softest of melodies in the distance. In nature's orchestra, please let my heart be the metronome.

My son could grow up enjoying the simplest gifts in life. The way the breeze tickles his cheeks as he sits under the sycamore, his back resting on its paper-thin bark. The sweet and dampened smell of homemade fertilizer under his nails after helping in the garden on weekend afternoons. Cool water on his calloused hands as he rinses them off in the creek. He may go off to college, but I hope that if he does, he will always want to come home because that's where he feels the most serenity.

I want nothing but to provide a haven for my husband and our son. I've never felt a greater sense of importance and love than my time spent in our kitchen. Slow cooking in the cast iron Dutch oven, the beautiful, bold smell of a roast with fresh onions, potatoes, and carrots from my garden could invade my husband's senses as he returns from work. Sweet cornbread cooling down, begging to be soaked in au jus. He would wait to be served in mouthwatering anticipation. And we would sit together, eating at the redwood table that he built for me. The sound of our son’s laughter filling the entire room as we talk about our day. And even though our boy plucks the carrots out of his roast, I couldn't help but to laugh at him as he lets out his best Gordon Ramsey impression and says, "This roast is absolutely amazing, but these carrots taste like a dog’s dinner."

We now live in a time where it's near impossible to appreciate the smallest treasures in our lives. Self-sufficiency, hard work, appreciation for essentials- all relics of a bygone era, fading away like whispers in the wind.

I feel it flowing through me. It's in the very oxygen I breath. I ache silently for a life unburdened by the rush of the world around me. I want to live each day with intention and meaning, necessities instead of excess. With each nightfall, the desires I hold- simple, untainted- drift further from me. Vanishing beyond a world that no longer makes room for simplicity.