Everyone is pretending to be in a state of oh-so-cool, constant abundance. But this place reflects a shallow materialism, a copycat version of something cheap. It’s the trade-off for pristine streets and the greenest green landscapes. They sell safety and status.
But you can’t take an uninterrupted breath here. Petty ordinances, unchecked property taxes, HOAs—all shout, “You report to us.”
What it gives in prestige, it takes in peace. Dogs bark behind fences. A convoy of Amazon trucks crawls through nonstop. Leaf blowers whine. Mow crews descend like clockwork. Peace has no space to take root before another notice or fee arrives to remind you who’s in charge.
I don’t need a different life—I need an undisturbed place to live it.
I want to stare for hours without the outside world imposing its priorities on me. Sip coffee on the porch in my underwear. Let the animals set the schedule, not the city workers.
Something that feels like your grandma’s house. That kind of safety. That kind of sweet iced tea. Cobbler with peach ice cream, eaten under the stars, while wrapped in a quilt. Picking blackberries with off-leash dogs. Where I can’t just see nature, I live inside it. Think tree house, but on the ground.
I want a room—disconnected, just for me, built of wood, stone, and memory. A place of solitude, where nothing matches, and everything means something. Crystals hang from fishing line in the windows. A room with a view that invites me to remember who I am. A place for praise. A place to shelter my heart.
I want to sit with the people I love around a fire, roasting hot dogs, repeating the same memories over and over. I want them to rest here. To feel fed. Known. Safe.
I’m talking about a spiritual place—with the kind of quiet that makes God’s voice loud and clear, where I’m free.
I’m not talking about an escape. I’m talking about something better than new.
I’m not running. I’ve just grown older. I know what I care about, and what I don’t. I just have to want the right things.