On Saturday, it was fairly nice out, so my husband and I decided to take our dog for a walk. It ended up being a five-mile walk on a snowy trail, a good workout, and it was wonderful to be outside, breathing in some fresh air. We saw quite a few birds, chickadees and sparrows, cardinals and crows, titmice and a hawk.
And then there was little guy, all cute and happy and making me smile. He was kind enough to sit still as I snapped several photos, he didn’t really seem to mind my presence. Perhaps he was concentrating on looking for food.
Yesterday I sat at my kitchen table watching the birds at the feeder again, and realized that I have been looking at birds out that same window for 27 years. That’s a long time. And then I thought about all the things in this house that I always thought I would change, the tiny windows being one of them, and I can’t believe that much time has gone by without it happening.
I was so young when I moved here, my son still a baby. And I never thought I would still be in this same house, all these years later.
Life is funny, it just keeps on keeping on, no matter where you stand or land or fly on off to.
But somehow, it feeds you, too. And in many ways, this place has kept me grounded.
My garden is here, a place that has become a part of who I am.
We have a history together, this tiny house on this plot of land with birds and flowers and wide open sky.
And a small life that’s been lived in the largest possible of ways.
With love and hope and laughter as nourishment.
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