A Sanctuary of Sorts

When my brother and I were little, my parents built a home for us. A big, yellow, farm-style house on acreage.

Down a gravel road, surrounded by sky-scraper tall evergreens, and far from the noise of surrounding neighborhoods, we spent our youth. 

We dug tunnels; we tromped through the buttercups; we cared for the horse, cows, sheep, and dogs; we built forts; we made bonfires; we played hide-and-seek in the field, grass taller than my head.

As bucolic as life can get in suburban America. 

And I loved it.

Conversely, my own family has settled in the city. Albeit a quieter, more isolated, neighborhood in the city, but still...it's a life I never envisioned for myself. One with close neighbors and the never-ending sounds of energy and movement.

And, I love it, too.

So, I count myself lucky that my mom and dad still reside in the same home in which I was raised. On the same property, with the same forts, woods, and grassy fields. A sanctuary of sorts.

And on those days when I desperately need to escape the hubbub of my urban existence, we pile into the minivan and hit the road. Bound for Nana and Papa's house. 

I let the kids loose on the property. They squeal and run and wiggle, just like puppies in the sun.  

I kick back in a lawn chair with a gin and tonic {my own sort of giddy revelry}. And everyone is happy.

Even back then, knee-deep in awkwardness and teen angst, I adored my home - that place my parents built for us out on the fringes of my known world.

I'm so pleased that my own little kiddos can discover it anew - all its quirky, beautiful, hidden secrets.

Which only makes me love it more. :)