Sometimes all I can think when I look at our bed is how luxurious it would be to be able to crawl into and out of it on either side. So many options! Or to have room for a bedside table. An actual surface wider than a window sill on which to place things. Only in dreams.
It’s a good test to see how grateful I am being on a given day. Or how negative I am allowing myself to be. Do I love our bedroom today? Surrounded by windows and with a view of huge other-worldly succulents in the yard? The one where we get to wake with a front row seat to the heavy fog in the palm trees and patio lights, or the sun peeking in between branches, or even—on some deliciously special days—rain drops beating on the glass all around? Or do I see only a bed that is shoved against the wall on three sides and remember only the claustrophobia I feel sometimes during the night when I wake up pinned between a cold hard window and a hot pup who has wedged herself in between us?
It’s funny how even the things we think will make us happy still fail us once we get them. Why then, knowing this, do I still hold these things in my mind, romanticizing them so, while I know that one day when I have them I will inevitably crave the opposite? I pray for contentment more than almost any other thing.