I picture a small, old house out in the country, somewhat isolated, surrounded by lush green and ancient trees. It's a loved house, full of creaking wooden floors and rooms that are hard to keep warm in the winter but stay cool in the summer - thanks to a network of fans circulating air down a hallway, throughout the rooms.
It's peeling paint but still quite lovely; the front yard is wild and barely tamed. Wildflowers bloom everywhere. Dandelions are actually encouraged.
Somewhere within walking distance is a winding creek full of snapping turtles and crawdads and frogs and minnows.
I have a tiny office somewhere in the back of the house, and it's got a window overlooking my vegetable garden. (I know how to grow vegetables in this picture.) I'm a writer, but I'm writing things that thrill me. My first book is due out in just a few months.
My children run the length of the house and up the stairs where their rooms are. They are connected with nature and full of passion. They remind me every day that life is sweet.
My husband has just returned home from work. He is a teacher at a local middle school.
We are planning a trip to Iceland. We'll go to the library later to pick up books on Iceland, books on learning the language.
As a family, we are always learning.
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