I’m remembering the time when my husband and I first talked about living in a tiny house at the end of 2013. It was a baby step that would move us toward achieving longer-term, would-they-ever-happen goals — like living on a plot of land in the country, for instance. At the time, we were living in an industrial-style condo near downtown San Francisco, newly married and both working for companies headquartered right there in the city. Sounds comfy and convenient for two young professionals: why would there be a reason to leave?
But things change. Scenes of a different life are envisioned. Goals are set. And it’s so strange, but really really nice, to sit outside on my deck and look out at all of this:
I live here. I live here. I live here! Less than five years after those initial conversations on what ifs and what could be next, I’ve gotten to where I envisioned I could to be. It doesn’t always feel that way — that I am moving along on an invisible string in the universe, that progress is being made — but when I take a moment to sit still and breathe and look around, I realize that things do happen in time.