I love that I can see two cars and three turkeys and think it’s traffic. I love that my neighbors have horses. I love that most years we won’t see the ground between thanksgiving and the first day of spring. I love that I don’t have to wake to an alarm clock. I love that feel like I live in the country but I can walk to the drug store, the grocery store, the post office, and the corner cafe. I love that I live less than a mile from a state park with a beautiful lake. I love that I live in a “village.” (One big thing, ok?) I love that Bernie Sanders is our senator. Of course, even when you live a quiet life in a small town, there are little things and big things in your life and in your world. But to me it is the little things — the morning cup of coffee on the porch, the great LTE signal at the lake, the tiny chips in the paint on my big old farmhouse — that give texture and character and beauty to life. I take photos of knitted garments and often put old chipped walls, broken furniture, or rusty abandoned farm equipment in the background. All these things that most people would want to remove from their lives create beauty if you look at them from a different angle. It reminds me of my favorite poem by William Carlos Williams. (No not the wheel barrow poem, I hate that one.) The most marvelous is not
the beauty, deep as that is,but the classic attempt
at beauty,at the swamp’s center: the
dead-end highway, abandonedwhen the new bridge went in finally.
There, either side an entryfrom which, burned by the sun,
the paint is peeling—two potted geraniums
from “The Hard Core of Beauty” by William Carlos Williams