Small

I just realized how small I've let my life become. It's about 12 hours until we leave, and I'm thinking about the linen closet, the wash cloths, the color of the bedspreads, the shower curtain . . . the small stuff. This is what I occupy my mind with -- things that are immediately around me in my small little space. There's nothing wrong with that. I'm not judging myself.

But I long for a large life.

I want to walk outside my door and breathe in the air of the mountains. I want to put on some grippy shoes and walk around on unfamiliar terrain. I want the feeling of lying under the stars, of watching the sun come up. I want to fish in the Pacific Ocean! It's all so large, and experiencing it provides a kind of spaciousness of a life. I think it's good for the kids and Ken and me to exist in a small space -- good and somewhat responsible and accountable, given the limited resources for people on the globe. Living small helps us consume less and take up as little room as possible as beings on the earth. It's mostly how people in lots of places live and have lived -- it's nothing new or admirable. But I also want the

kids to feel the space of outside. The air. The peace. I want them to feel the wind and sun on their faces as they look up to the sky.

I want our lives to be large, in that we think about how god swirls through us as we cast our lines into the water, rather than about whether to stack the blue towel on the grey one or vice versa.
I love our little space. But I'm anxious for a broader experience that can't be housed here.

Goodbye, DC.