I'd like to be domestic, I think, given the chance. But work keeps getting in the way--I have to leave home just as I'm about ready to start scrubbing, to bring old tiles back to a shine and chase spiders out of corners. To pick through the precarious piles of books and papers, putting some where they ought to go and casting others back out into the wilds of thrift store or shredder. To mend holes and embroider over stubborn stains, to take worn out clothes and combine them into something new.
To dig in the dirt in the cool of the day, without needing to conserve self for desk-work later. To make food and not simply consume, having time to test and taste and plan a month's menus.
If we had children (still possible, even likely): to demonstrate the small joys of caring for the things entrusted to your care. The deep happiness that comes from not chasing the more and the new and the ever-receding horizon of almost enough.
This is all unlikely, I suspect. But a morning like this one makes me yearn--makes me remember dreams I mostly manage to forget so that I can be content with the good things I currently possess.
It would be hard, I know--life is always hard. But not without satisfaction. Not without companionship. And it could be something that lasted longer than the latest software update or change in curriculum.
Yours (should we ever meet),