I don’t know how to do simple.

Tonight I am making homemade spaghetti sauce with garden tomatoes and fresh basil—enough to feed a house party of twenty. There are three people in my family. Two of them under the age of five. We don’t eat that much spaghetti. Still, I never seem to take on a small task.

I don’t know how to slow down. I don’t know how to get organized. I barely feel on most days like I can keep up.

There is the mom side of me. The work side of me. The book side of me. The friendship side of me. The working to grow in my faith side of me. The music side of me. The cleaning the house side of me. The exercise side of me. The try to go to bed at a decent time (which rarely happens) side of me.

I want a simple life.

I want to live in a two-room red brick house with laundry hanging from the front porch drying in the wind. I want to read a book in bed before falling asleep. I want to take time to inhabit my day whether blowing bubbles with my kids or baking rhubarb crisp or folding laundry.

I know what I want. In the midst of a complicated, broken, full of love kind of life–I want simple.

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