I Want To…

I want to wear linen overalls and pad through the house in easy fashion.
I want to walk barefoot across the soft carpet in our living room, curl my toes in, feel the texture.
I want to fluff pillows, fold throw blankets, raise the blinds and welcome in the sunshine.

 I want to froth milk in my foamer, add caramel sauce to my coffee, and top the mug off with whip and cinnamon sprinkle.
I want to let the whip mustache my top lip as I savor the smell, texture, and taste of my fragrant latte.
I want to watch the whip melt into soft ribbons and delight in the coppery highlights of my coffee.

I want to fry an egg in butter until the edges are brown and crisp and set just right.
I want to slip a slice in the toaster and let it brown until it pops up and out and I pluck it onto a plate and smooth butter over the toasty surface, watch it melt and swirl.
I want to flip my browned butter egg onto my butter-drenched toast forming an enticing open-faced sandwich.
I want to close my eyes and sink my teeth into the toasty soft and crunchy textures and savor.

I want to hunt through the couch cushions, magically come up with a wand to wave, one that will create order from the chaos, generate clean dishes from the dirty hodge-podge filling the sink. I want to snap my fingers, Mary Poppins style and watch the laundry soar through the air and neatly fold itself into bureau drawers.  

I want to create in Canva and scrawl out words in my floral notebook and flip open my Zenbook to type words and tap to turn on my numpad.
I want to open Spotify and find my writing and creating playlist filled with the music composed by my son, set it to repeat and tap the volume proper.

I want to dig through my desk and find pens and stamps and stationary and stickers, loop some letters onto cards tuck them into envelopes and address the fronts firmly ready to go into tomorrow’s mail.

I want to walk into Trader Joe’s and peruse the buckets brimming with a profusion of blossoms.
I want to bundle my arms with ranunculus and country garden roses and fresh daisies. I want to add seeded eucalyptus and a bit of chamomile.
I want to say yes when the checker asks me “Would I like a bucket with water to transport my flowers home in?”
I want to carry the flowers into my house, place them on my laundry room countertop by the copper sink.
I want to rummage for my favorite footed glass container and my vintage metal flower frog and begin to snip the ends of stems and place and turn and form a bouquet with the hues of ripe Colorado peaches.

I want to gaze out my living room window across the cultivated field to our farmyard.
I want to listen as my good farmer man’s Peterbilt rumbles to life and lurches to move the load of seed wheat.
I want to take in the busy scene with all its moving parts in preparation for the cycle of seedtime in September.

I want to step out my backdoor when my friend and her sons stop by with a produce delivery.
I want to chat and laugh and watch her boys locate the rope toy and proceed to play Jackie’s favorite game of tug-of-war with her as she perks her ears and places her paws in excited preparation.

I want to lug the Traeger from the garage, pour in applewood pellets, set it on 375°.
I want to pour butter over sweet corn, add salt and pepper and paprika, all in an easy-cleanup-foil-pan, tuck it into the grill to roast.
I want to mix Tillamook’s four-cheese blend with Baby Rays and seasoned salt and ground round, and then form and pat and press, shaping hamburgers to join the corn on the grill.

I want to get the mini watermelon chilling in the fridge, grab the red-handled knife from the block and head for the backyard where I can cut it into juicy sweet slices on my backyard sink made for me by my good farmer man.
I want to bite off the triangle tip, let the juice run, and inhale the sweet taste of watermelon summer.

I want to give the timer a twist, let the soaker hose soak, move the fan-shaped sprinkler to a dry patch, set the yard for overnight watering.

I want to rattle food into bowls, fill up water dishes, give the kittens some milk. I want to laugh at Theodore’s antics, listen for the jangle of his heart-shaped tag on his collar as he does his jaunty trot across the yard to his kennel. 

I want to reach for the faucet, turn it to hot and let the water run and warm while I rummage for a washcloth.
I want to step into the shower with a deep exhale, close my eyes and let the water run across me from scalp to toes.
I want to find my soft t-shirt and linen shorts and climb into my pajamas like a warm hug.

I want to shed my insecurities that I often wear like a second skin.
I want to let go of the need to tie so many things to my identity, let go of seeking a sense of purpose from others’ opinions, let go of wanting something to validate my sense of success.
I want to toss it all high into the wind, watch the chaff blow away in our Kansas wind.

I want to live curious, keep anxiety and shame and good old guilt from having the last word. 
I want to live large and breathe deep in all the best and simplest ways.
I want to scatter beauty and broadcast kindness.
I want to lean in to the language of listening and bear witness to this business of being a human.
I want to live a quiet life and work with my hands.
I want to start my days at sunset, begin with rest, work into the to-dos from a place of pause. A signal to my soul that all is well.
I want to delight in all that is good and beautiful and true.
I want to believe in all that Jesus has to offer, live out life from His perspective.