More often I envy the real home-steaders of long ago who lived like that of necessity. I want the challenge of those days, and the realness of them. The simplicity. I know they were hard, I know I’m romanticising them, but I don’t care. Something deep inside me wishes we could go back.
And then sometimes, when I see the rows of fresh baked pies that mom made, or see the racks of herbs drying in the closet, or when I stop to realize that my hobby (besides reading and writing) is making candles, then I think that maybe I’m not so different than those home steaders long ago. I bet we have a year’s worth of food in our basement too.
But then there are the times when I know we can never really go back to those days. Not really. I drive a car. I like to use my laptop to design all kinds of things, and I have to admit, I’d be a bit lost without my smartphone.
But while I like the convenience of these things, I’m also afraid of them. Maybe not of them as much as if where they will take us. I’m afraid we’ll forget the important things of life, like picking blackberries, reading a good book or sitting on the front porch. I don’t like superficial relationships, I want to drink sweet tea together and talk about our dreams.