“Life is just so much better when it’s simple.”

Earlier this week, I sat with my husband and kids under the soft glow of patio lights - the dewy scent of freshly cut grass in the air, a spectacular full moon rising over the river - and I spoke those words. 

For me, that moment itself qualified as a perfect example of some of the best simple things in life, but I actually made the statement to affirm the conversation taking place:  One primarily flowing between my kids.    

I didn’t even have to glance at my husband to know I’d find him nodding in absolute agreement. 

He and I have reached a point where, after having tried it pretty much every other way – we know for sure that we get the greatest satisfaction from living life simply:  Our kids.  Our home.  Our puppy.  A handful of seriously good friends (a large percentage of whom we also call family).  Our river – and sitting together by it every evening.  Cooking great food.  Drinking “good” wine.  (We enjoy the $10 bottles every bit as much as any $100 bottle we have ever tried – and we like it that way!)   Going on occasional adventures when opportunities arise – but not really needing anything more than we already have at home. 

Much of my adult life has been filled with so many more “things” than the ones I just named.  Things I said “yes” to, when I really should have said “no”.  Things I chased after, somehow believing I needed them to make life better.  A funny thing happened, though:  In striving to do too many things, I rarely got to truly enjoy any of them. 

I have changed my mind about what I really need and want out of my life.      

We spent last weekend working on our boat dock.  It has needed attention for the past few years.  But recognizing it as one of those major projects where things have to get worse before they can get better, we have just kept squeezing “one more year” out of it.  We’ve pushed our luck long enough.  We had to do it this year. 

I took on the painting and staining.  With just me, the sunshine, the sparkling water, the ducks, and some tools, I had quite a bit of time to think:    

For so many years, summer has just not been my favorite season.  I realize that goes against a great deal of popular opinion.  I also know that, given the way we enjoy the river, boating, and the fun that comes with those things, hearing me say that might come as a surprise. 

The truth, though, is that around here, summer brings with it a whole lot of work.  Also, a whole lot of daylight – which I tend to view as more hours to work.  The cycle of keeping up with everything… the yard, the garden, the flowers, boats, campers… and still staying on top of businesses and work, the house, the laundry… and trying to do it all well:  It has at times all felt very exhausting.    

When I consider that I really do enjoy everything I just named (well, except laundry - at best, I tolerate that,) it doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense that I’d feel that way about it.  Except that when I think of it as all just more to do, on an already long list of things I have to do, it makes total sense that I’d feel that way about it. 

For so much of our lives, we always wanted more.  Tried to do more.  Which led to needing to have more; worry about more; take care of more.  The world kind of tells you that’s what you’re supposed to do…

The world doesn’t tell you that it might eventually start to feel like just too much.  Too much STUFF: On our minds, on to-do lists that, like dark clouds, hang over us constantly.  TOO MUCH STUFF:  In our garages.  In our homes and our yards.  In what can feel like every crevice of life. 

Left unchecked, even good things - things that we have at some point truthfully wanted – can sneakily begin taking up way too much space in our lives. 

This past year, our life – like the lives of so many others - underwent some significant changes.  So much just came to a screeching halt.  Including things that had previously taken up more of my time and attention than I ever even realized.    

It took a while to settle into the reality of it.  It was the strangest thing to simultaneously lament the situation that removed all choice in so many matters, to grieve the loss of things we had imagined turning out an entirely different way – and yet also feel a sense of relief about how much more of everything – time, energy, resources – we suddenly had available to focus on other things. 

How good might it feel to clear out some of the things taking up space, and make room – true room - for the things we WANT in our lives? 

There was a time, not so long ago, when - if I had spent a weekend painting and staining a boat dock - I would have done so while thinking about all the other things I “should have” been doing instead.   

Now, though, it did not feel that way. 

I worked hard:  I reached, twisted, stretched, and balanced enough to rival any yoga class. 

Despite my best efforts to slather on a thick coating of sunblock and diligently reapply, my alabaster winter skin emerged from the endeavor sporting some ridiculous-looking sunburn lines.  Suggesting that, while it might have been yoga-class-worthy activity, maybe I cannot, in fact, reach my own back as well as I think I can in yoga class... 

I also ended the weekend with undeniably red knees, from the amount of time I spent on them.  It’s worth noting that, while I was down there, I did not waste the opportunity to offer up some grateful prayers:  That we have this place to call our own, and the privilege of taking care of it.  For the countless times we’ve stepped aboard a vessel, departed that very place, and idled back in hours later having enjoyed some of the best days of our lives.  For the friends and family with whom we have spent those days, and for the anticipation of many more to come. 

…A couple of evenings later, I planted this year’s garden. 

I guess I make quite an ordeal of that:  I use a string line and a tape measure.  I read instructions for each plant to determine how much space I should leave between it and its neighbors in every direction.  Then, using the actual plants, I lay the whole thing out before I ever dig one hole – attempting to ensure I effectively use all the space I have; but no more space than I have.  I strategically consider water requirements and distance from the sprinkler.  I make sure it all looks relatively straight “enough,” and that I have left enough room so that, when the novelty of keeping after the weeds by hand wears off (it will), a rototiller will fit between the rows. 

In the past, even though I love my garden, that ordeal has felt like an ordeal. 

This year, though, that also felt different, in a very good way. 

I always think of my grandfather – my PaPa – when I garden.  He was the best gardener I have ever known, and I know it put a twinkle in his eye to see that his love for it passed all the way down to several of us grandchildren. 

I now also think of our dear neighbor who taught us so much about gardening; the time we spent with him and the harvests we shared.  The way he always willingly came running (and usually laughing) to bail me out of any gardening emergency – like the time I dug in my little shovel and dug UP a ground mole - and then was too freaked out to go back in!  We miss him often, and gardening feels like an extra special time to remember him. 

I took my time enjoying the whole “ordeal” and my memories this year, even though it took me long enough that my husband ended up jumping in to help me finish planting before I completely lost daylight. 

In that savored quiet time while it was just me, the string line, the tape measure, the plants, and the dirt, I again sent up a grateful prayer:  For another summer of life.  For the memories I have of those special men.  For the bountiful harvests that have sprung forth from that little patch of earth, year after year.  For the privilege of living in a part of the world and in a time when I can garden as a hobby.  (If I mess it up, it doesn’t mean my family won’t survive the winter.)  For friends and family who enjoy the things I grow, and with whom I enjoy sharing. 

And so, the end of this week finds us with a slightly-better-looking boat dock, a planted garden - and still a long way to go:  Not only on those projects, but also in the process of clearing out things we just don’t need.    

It finds me with an ever-growing understanding of how much we actually stand to gain by removing excess from our lives: 

How much more fruitful we can become in the things that really matter. 

How much more gratitude we can have the presence of mind – and heart – to feel. 

I will always wonder if I would have ever recognized how much I needed to make changes, had God not redeemed my circumstances and made them for me.

I also end this week with sore muscles, raggedy fingernails, a weird-looking sunburn… and the unique joy that comes from falling into bed at night physically tired from things I enjoyed.  Not mentally exhausted by things I never needed anyway.  I am grateful to know the difference. 

My son sat down with me last night and said, “It feels so good to be trimming the fat around here.  I’m ready to have only the things I really want.”  I am so happy he is learning that at 19 - not at 49, like me.  I could not agree with him more. 

Viewed through a lens of gratitude, even the most mundane and seemingly simple parts of life look awfully beautiful.  In fact, to me, they look a whole lot like the best parts of life.