Sometimes I like to dream of what my perfect life might look like. I imagine it would be full of yellow painted rooms filled with early afternoon sunlight. I imagine thick wool socks padding around on hard wood floors. Floors that have been lovingly worn down by large, floppy dogs—following my every footstep.
I imagine black and white tiles in the kitchen. The kind you see in the movies. With tall cabinets painted cream and antique door handles. I imagine a breakfast nook, white shuttered windows and a barn-door-red tea kettle. I imagine mason jars and antique tins filled with bulk coffee and quinoa.
I imagine a covered back porch and an Adirondack chair. Denim colored cushions, faded from too many summers. A backyard with a fenced garden—tall sunflowers and nasturtiums peeking out of old wooden wine boxes. My fantasy would involve a large oak tree out front—a hammock hanging from is branches.
My room would be a vaulted attic. With exposed beams and a large window looking out over the water. There would be a tiny porch, with a tiny chair and a tiny table. My desk would hold a milk jar filled with wildflowers. My bed would be a kingdom of feathers and down and quilted goodness. There would be an antique rocker in the corner, nearby, a stack of books for midnight reading.
My perfect life would feel worn in. It would feel comfortable, and aged—with wrinkles and sun stains. The kind of life that allows for a deep sigh. It would be the kind of life that doesn’t make headlines. Instead, it fits comfortably into the back pocket—like a favorite novel, or the wallet that has been worn down to soft leather and imprints of old coins.
My perfect life wouldn’t involve a plethora of anything—money, people, things—it would be a life of substance. Not too much, not too little.
This life would involve a man who I can hold hands with. It would include late Friday evenings in front of a fire, legs on top of legs, reading and being quiet. It would involve yearly camping trips to places we deem “ours”. Hiking trails that end at the stars and private lakes perfect for late night swims.
This life would be full of traditions. Berry picking in the summer. Cutting down a Christmas tree in the winter. Hiking all year round.
This life would be based around the kitchen—canning together, cooking together, mingling over spices and tea blends.
It would include daily sessions of stretching. Aloe vera plants and the smell of lavender. It would include a meditation nook—and a place I can practice silence and being alone. It would include never having to wear real pants, and making my living teaching others to feel at home in their bodies. It would include vegetables in all forms, and radiant skin forever dotted with freckles.
My perfect life would include a body that I love and one that loves me back.
My life would be documented with silly pictures. The type of picture that every person has, boxes upon boxes of prints. So one day you can look back and say, “ah yes, here it is. This is what perfection looks like.”